


Headshot

by Admortire



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Dissociation, Don't copy to another site, Family, Identity Issues, M/M, POV Alternating, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Some angst, Some depression, constant heart to heart conversations, don't take life lessons from fanfic, some anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:20:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 99,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23498164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Admortire/pseuds/Admortire
Summary: “We found him, we have him.”If he hadn’t been standing already, he would’ve jumped up on his feet. For a split second he glanced at the door, ready to run out, even if he didn’t know where to go, he needed to move.“I can help,” Steve gripped his fingers tighter, “I can help him remember.”“That’s the thing,” Maria stopped for a moment, searching for words anywhere but in Steve’s vicinity, “He claims not remembering being the Winter Soldier, he claims he’s James Barnes.”“And he’s lying,” Natasha slid through like a dagger between his ribs before Steve could get another word out.Or:The Winter Soldier pretends to be Bucky Barnes on orders from a crumbling Hydra.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 22
Kudos: 111





	1. Chapter 1

The soldier knelt down next to the target on the river bank. Injured and stinking drab water seeped into his combat gear. With the raging helicopters overhead and the explosions still going on behind them, it wouldn't take long before they would find him. 

He didn't look over to the man at his side, coughing, sputtering and bleeding empty. He wouldn't look at the face of his target, at his failed mission. Instead he kept his back straight, eyes ahead. Waiting. 

He was good at waiting. Good at keeping the tedious stretch of time at bay. It was his task to wait for action and then respond. He would wait for his order and then perform it. He would wait for the target to enter his scope and then eliminate it. 

He would not think of the fight. He would not think of the target calling him names, giving him promises, feeding him lies. There was no pain to ponder over. Just him and the upcoming assignment. 

Right now, he needed to wait for them to take him.

And when they came for him, whole squadrons of armed men and women, pointing guns, stun batons and wary eyes, he raised his arms. Slowly. 

The act of surrender didn't put anyone at ease, but the man behind him was still trying very hard not to die. They would not keep this stalemate going, they couldn't afford it, he knew. The man behind him was a valuable asset and a national symbol. And the people coming to his rescue were sentimental to a fault. If there was the possibility for them to save this man, they would take it. Even if it meant not eliminating the threat standing before him. 

And as predicted, they approached him carefully, two of them going in for contact at the same time. Hands shaking, stinking of sweat that even overpowered the stench of the water, mud and blood. They were still thinking he wouldn't let them touch him, but he kept his hands up. He let them push him to the ground, face first in the dirt, bend both arms on his back, lock him into iron bars that barely held him and shoved him into the back of a blackened van. After a few harried orders and shouts from the operatives on the scene, he was on his way.

This was the first step of getting them to trust him completed. It would all be easy riding from here. The soldier looked at the guards who were eyeing him apprehensively, tense and uncomfortable. He looked at them, at their hands, at their hunched shoulders, at their goggles. When he was sure to have their complete attention he gradually moved the muscles in his face, eased up the strain in his back, slouched down in his seat, presented himself as non-threatening as possible. 

Then he smiled.

They shared an uncertain look, suspicious, gripping the handles on their guns tight. But a smile was not a reason to kill. A smile was disarming. A smile would further his agenda.

With a smile the soldier became the spy.

⁂

Eventually a strict woman entered the bare holding cell. She didn’t introduce herself, she didn’t need to. The spy had read her file, had been privy to a detailed extract of her life. Even with the fall of Shield she held herself as if she owned the place. 

There was no place to sit in the cell where they held him, so she took her place below the corner camera. He glanced up at it again, trying to shake his hair out of the way, showing fear and frustration. 

“Tell me again,” she spoke firm, unafraid, her arms crossed over her chest, “From the top.”

“Sergeant J.B. Barnes, 32557038- look I’ve repeated this for hours on end, what it feels like,” the spy gave her a pleading look, lip trembling, “No, I don’t remember what happened. No, I don’t know your Winter Soldier. I know I’m hurt, I’m hungry and could really use a friendly face right about now.”

Hill observed him. She made a good attempt at keeping her face stoic, but he could tell she didn’t believe a word of what he was saying. 

“Tell me about your mission,” Hill said instead. 

“Like a told twenty other fellas before you, Austria, Zola, train, now I’m here. Are you after government secrets? Want to know what the US army is up to? You’ll have to do a little bit better than this.”

She sighed, glancing at the mirrored glass beside her. 

“This the part where you’re gonna threaten me?” the spy asked, “Because I’m telling you all I know.”

“We will if you keep up this flaccid ruse,” Hill snapped. 

Dramatically the spy dropped his head, let his shoulders hang. When he forced it up again, he bit his lip, pleading. She didn’t seem impressed. That was fine, she was too set on it not to be impressed. He could do this all day. 

“Ma’am, please consider some understanding,” his lip was split and he tasted blood, “You know Captain America? Big guy, blue suit, large dinner plate for a shield. He was with me, he knows me, get him on the line. Please.”

“Alright, _Sergeant Barnes_ , tell me how you got here,” she waved around the cell, “Out of all the lies you told, you can’t expect me to believe you don’t remember our little trip from the Potomac.”

“Ma’am, please understand, I musta hit my head or something, I want to give you a straight answer, I really do, honest to God,” he shook his head, “It’s all loopy, like a fuzzy dream. I remember being here, remember I’ve spoken to five other people before yourself. I don’t know who you are, where I am, why my head is pounding like a construction crew on a Saturday or how my hair got so Goddamn long.”

“Sergeant Barnes,” Hill nearly interrupted him, her muscles tense, like she wanted to get out of here as soon as possible, “Why don’t we have a look at some footage.”

With a snap of her fingers a screen popped up on the other side of the room, projected on the gray mottled wall. It showed the soldier and the target in combat. The camera shaky and far away, still they got some impressive shots of both their faces. If the soldier had been the ghost, this wouldn’t have happened. 

Hill watched him instead, but he kept his eyes on the screen. When she paused on the soldier’s face, he slacked his jaw, tilted forward, straining uncomfortably in the restraints that bolted him to the floor. He sucked in a sharp incredulous gasp. 

“Are you saying that’s me? Is that what you’re saying? I’m some freak with a metal arm attacking my best friend that I’ve known my entire life?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Sergeant Barnes,” she looked absolutely smug now. 

The spy knew Bucky wasn’t much of a crier and if only he could he would let a few fall down his cheeks, to show his desperation. Nothing came. The spy did not cry but hid his face. 

“Ma’am, with all due respect, Steve is my lifelong friend, the only person I trust wholeheartedly. And that you dare to claim- to _accuse_ me of hurting a hair on his body, well that just goes beyond me. That makes me less than civil ma’am. You can tie me up, you can beat on me, let me sit in this cell for all eternity, but that just goes beyond.”

“With all due respect,” Hill copied uncurling her fingers from her biceps, “You shot him three times and left him to drown. I’m sure even the assassin in you can understand our hesitation.”

The spy hid his delight with more violent spews of disbelief. For Hill to lose her composure and her determination so easily was certainly a win. Even faster than he had dared hope, his commanders would surely be pleased. 

Hill recaptured her blankslate expression during his tirade. Only dismissing the projection of the fight with the wave of a hand. She let him run out of words before she spoke again. 

“I see through you soldier,” she told him on the cautious side of snide, “We’ll talk again tomorrow.”

For a few more minutes he struggled, twisting his dislocated arm for more movement. Then with a glance at the camera, he saved his breath. Though he let himself grow quiet, he couldn’t let his persona slip. They would see and hear everything. 

⁂

The next time the door opened they brought him liquids, food and a bucket. Familiar procedures. Letting the hands take care of him, shaping and placing him to their desire. Throughout his service there were many different handlers and commanders, which meant different procedures. The best course of action was not to speak, not to move, not to look. It was always better to let them have the power to demand versus receiving a reprimand for disobedience. Even if the rules had not been explained. 

Now there were also parts unfamiliar. There were no inspections or drugs. They did not clean him up or treat his wounds. The food they came with was solid, which he involuntarily puked all over the wardens shoes. They hooked him up with a nutritious IV drip after that. 

Coming to this procedure through the lens of Bucky Barnes made his voice hoarse. He noticed that besides crying he could also not flush his cheeks on demand. Something the good boy had been a master at, back in his day. 

The warden appeared to be adequately upset by the whole ordeal anyway and hardly seemed to be concerned about his shoes. 

It didn’t matter if Hill told him she wasn’t convinced, if other people were, she would follow. 

The spy slept for twenty minutes every few hours, but pretended to fall away for longer periods of time to fool the cameras. Though he had little sense of time from the visuals of the cell, he could hear the building go quiet. Less of a humm in the wall, the decrease of the murmur and footsteps of people on the other side of the glass. 

Sometimes he could hear Hill’s voice slither through, but she would only ever visit him in the morning. 

Usually she would stand under the camera and ask him the same questions, demand that he’d drop his act, listen to him whine and plead and then leave. 

On the eleventh day they moved him. The spy knew what for, even if Hill seemed displeased about it. They rolled him into a chamber, laid him down on the medical bed, thongs, scalpels, drugs and machines stood at the ready. Unsatisfied with their progress, they would attempt to pull it out of him. 

The spy longed to see them try, especially with the equipment at the ready. He hadn’t thought they were naive enough he couldn’t endure a lot worse. 

Hill hovered over him as he was again bound to the table. Large metal restraints kept him in place. A medical team on his right, pushing needles in his arms. His face never left the anguished expression and when she showed it to Hill, he could see her flinch. 

“When Steve- When Captain America gets here, he will-”

“Spare me,” Hill clasped her hands behind her back, “Listen, we’re going to remove your mechanical arm. It’s filled with trackers, drugs and explosives.”

“My arm?” the spy forced his face to show disgust as he watched the greatest weapon in his arsenal, “Take it! Take it. If they put it there, take it.” 

One of the doctors gently nudged Hill aside, “The anesthetic will be kicking in soon. We’ll have to ask you to leave.”

She nodded to the woman, but didn’t leave, “Whether or not you are who you say you are,” carefully she placed a hand on the mattress, “We are not Hydra, the war is over for you, your duty is done soldier.”

The spy let the confusion speak for Bucky Barnes as well. Her words were meaningless to him. All he had to do was wait and there would be another task. And he was very good at waiting. 

When he woke up, sweat on his brow, jaw clenched he was back in the cell. They had tied him back to the floor. Aware of the camera, he did not whip to his left. He also didn’t need to, he could feel the comforting weight. 

It appeared they cleaned him up instead, washed, treated his wounds, trimmed his beard. They left his hair alone, surprisingly. There was hardly any time for him to get his bearings, Hill was already in the room with him. 

“You left it,” he breathed trying to hold his face straight while the anesthetic lingered. 

“Complications,” Hill replied, leaving the rest unspoken. 

“So what’s it for today?” he grimaced, “You like me to start with how much I don’t know?”

“I’ll ask you a set of different questions instead,” Hill didn’t seem comfortable, leaning from one foot to the other. 

She pulled out her phone, reading the lines before staring him down again. 

“How did you and Captain Rogers meet?” 

The spy raised his eyebrows, looked at his reflection in the mirror glass, “He’s here, ain’t he.”

“Answer the question, Sergeant Barnes,” Hill snapped. 

“Christ,” the spy let out an empty chuckle, he faced the mirror, not Hill, “Some bullies got a hold of his money and after a few scraps he set in the pursuit. I was minding my own business before they nearly knocked me off my feet, while I hollered after them, Steve grabbed me by the collar and demanded I’d join the chase. Which I did and got his money back for him.”

The silence stretched. Hill waiting for more or mulling over the story. The spy strained his ears to listen to the target rumble behind the glass. 

“We’ve been friends ever since,” he told Hill. 

“Tell me about your family.”

“Father George. Mother Winifred. Sister Rebecca, what do you wanna know?”

“Tell me something I can’t find in the Smithsonian or a history book,” tapped on her phone before sliding it back into her pocket. 

“The what?” the spy snapped at her, but shook his head, “Something only Steve knows you mean.”

Hill only waved her hand.

“I’m sure he never told you that story about where he came over for dinner, being so sick he spewed my ma’s beef stew all over Becca’s new dress and the living room rug. Only to pass out face first in his own sick,” the spy showed a grin, “We had to burn both the rug and the dress.”

He waited while Hill listened to the outburst happening behind the glass through her earpiece. Discontent flickered across her face. She would not be able to hold him if the target got wind of how his old army friend was being treated. 

“Would you’d like me to tell you about Steve’s mother too? How she died of TB in the heart of winter? How devastated he was?” the spy watched the glass hearing the stomp of footsteps towards the door. 

Hill spun to the glass and shook her head. A loud bang made the mirror shake, the spy made note. If the operation appeared to be fruitless, the one way glass appeared to be a tremendous weak point. 

They should’ve removed the arm when they had the chance. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow Sergeant Barnes,” Hill said calmly, as if nothing happened. 

“I’ll be right here, ma’am,” he tipped his head at her, lacking a hat to do it with. 


	2. Chapter 2

The moment Steve woke up in the hospital he asked where Bucky was. Instead he was met with Sam’s concerned face. 

“Lucky break this time, man,” Sam smiled grimly, “I’d ask you what happened up there, but I think I can guess it.”

Steve tried to move and winced, dropping back down in the pillows. After a few stunts of shallow breathing Sam returned at his side with a cup of water and a straw. 

“Those painkillers are not really doing it for you,” Sam held the cup for him even when he clasped his trembling hand. 

“It’s fine,” Steve breathed, between sips, “I’m fine.”

“Sure you are, big man,” Sam rolled his eyes, pointing to the little button that would help kill his pain, “Additionally you might want to see these giant flower arrangements, wall of get-well-soon cards and piles of fruit baskets. Don’t ask me who sent them, it wasn’t me.”

“Tony?” Steve grinned weakly, they both knew Tony was very tied up in his own problems. 

“Probably part of the Cap Am fan club,” Sam plucked a card from the wall, “You like me to read it to you?”

“Spare me,” Steve huffed, tapping the button a few times while Sam’s back was turned. 

For a few blessed minutes the pain dulled and his mind muddled. He could see Sam framed by the abundance of flowers, a radiating smile surrounded by pulsating colors. But he noticed the tension in his eyes and motioned him to sit back down. 

“What happened in the end?” Steve asked, feeling the tug of his bottom lip. 

There was Bucky, frightened and frantic. There was the burning wreckage of the ship. A long fall down and a plunge. Water and darkness followed by loud sirens, clinical smells and incessant beeping. 

“They found you on the side of the Potomac, bleeding out,” Sam ducked his hand, fiddling with a handle at the side of the bed. 

“And no sign of Bucky,” Steve sighed and clenched his fist, “Shit. I have to find him Sam. I have to.”

“I know.”

“I didn’t swim back to that shore on my own, he must’ve helped me, he pulled me out.”

“I know.”

“He was so confused, Jesus fuck, I could see it in his eyes, he needs my help.”

“Steve, I know, I know,” Sam hushed, picking the cup back up when Steve started panting, “Let’s get you up and running first, even with your super healing skills, it’s going to take time.”

“I’ve been out long?”

“A few days,” Sam set down the cup, pulling out his phone, “Natasha’s tied up in Europe, she makes me keep her up to date.”

“Is she- She’s going to-” Steve frowned, “Give me my phone.”

“She’s Natasha, she’s going to be fine,” Sam got up anyway. 

From a little cupboard by the wall he pulled out a bag and from it Steve’s phone. Sam offered it to him and pulled it back. 

“Now, all this stress is not going to do anything for your recovery,” he flipped the phone around between his fingers, “You want to be top game when you find your boy.”

“I’m an adult, Sam, I can take care of myself,” with a grunt he snatched the phone.

“I’m not even touching that with a ten foot stick right now, man,” Sam sighed as he sunk back into the chair, “I’m not telling this just for you. What I’m saying is that when you find your friend, he needs a hell of a lot more than a pat on the back to get back on his feet. What he’s been through, shit, you don’t just simply bounce back from that.”

“Of course not. Of course I’m going to be there for him, every step of the way. Whatever he needs.”

When the view of his phone got blurry, he closed his eyes and dropped his head back down on the pillow. Waves of vertigo pulling at him from all sides. For a moment it was like he was back in 1935, sick in bed. A friendly presence fussing over him. Thinking this was it, this time it was real. 

“Steve,” Sam spoke softly, slightly indenting the mattress as he leaned in, “I’ll put the phone on your bedside, alright? Make sure you’re getting better, put on your mask before helping others and all that.”

Steve nodded at the words looking at the array of flowers as Sam’s face blurred into them. Splotches of red white pink and yellow a cacophony of color, nearly too loud to watch. But Sam was there, he knew. And it would be alright. It would have to be. For Bucky. 

⁂

The floor in the tower came with his own personal gym. Perfect for all the physiotherapy he had been assigned. It proved to be a great way of spending time and keeping his mind busy, though proved a constant reminder of his strain and limited movement. And Steve desperately wanted to move. 

He kept his pace low on the treadmill, keeping a close eye on his phone. It would be past 12 in Europe and Natasha had promised to text him. She’s been more tight lipped than usual ever since he left the hospital and it put him on edge. 

The window in front of him showed the unusual drizzle above a New York skyline. Never in his childhood had he seen such a sight and he wished he did, even just to draw a simple comparison with what has changed. 

Bucky would know, he thought faintly. The vivid and determined glare disturbing any memory of his good friend. A cramp split his side and instead of pushing through it, he let the band roll out. Breathing shallowly to not aggravate the wound. 

He let his head hang, listening to the quiet around him. Not even the patter of rain filtered through the thick glass, only the machine buzzed faintly. The gym was enormous and there was no one around. 

It had been Tony’s idea to come to the tower, but he kept strange hours and stayed holed up in his lab. Sam told him it would be good to be among friends, but he wasn’t here. Natasha still running around with Clint in Europe. Bruce didn’t want the company. No need to waste words on Thor who had a whole other world to call his home. 

Steve sniffed and grunted, filling the empty recycled air with anything else than loneliness. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t felt before, but it somehow became so much more apparent with the knowledge of Bucky being out there somewhere. 

Someone who knew the city before him how it used to be. 

Steve squatted down for his water bottle and towel, carefully sitting down on the sleek wooden floor. Even that still smelled like new varnish and cleaning chemicals. Never been used before he decided to take a seat. 

He was only fooling himself, of course. The way Bucky was, the things that they did to him, he might never remember the days of old. He knew that. He wanted to accept it before he found Bucky. For now the desire was too great, the hope a burning wildfire in his body. 

Steve pulled himself up by the treadmill, giving the phone another glance. No message from Natasha, no texts from Sam. A picture of Peggy on the background, smiling just as ferociously as she had in the war. 

There was enough time in the day to give her a visit. Tony would always show affection through incessant gift giving. He had been assigned two ridiculous large cars, crash proof, bulletproof. ‘Metal arm proof’, he had said. 

On his way to DC, his phone pinged. Immediately he swayed in his line of traffic, fumbling about for his phone. With less than half an eye on the road he filled in the elaborate code, let it scan his thumb print and made a complicated symbol, twice, before he saw the message from an unknown number. 

“Don’t go doing anything stupid,” it said followed by a couple of seemingly random icons. 

With a huff he pressed the phone against the steering wheel, trying to type out his message while not crashing any other vehicles. 

“Sam got me on house arrest,” he managed, cursing a slow car in front of him under his breath. 

“Which is why ur en route to DC atm,” Natasha wrote back, leaving the multitude of icons this time. 

He frowned at the message, resisting the urge to have a good look around the car or even outside for any spying equipment. Not that he would find it if it was Natasha. 

“Visiting Peggy,” he just about managed to hit send before a car honked several times and the phone slipped between his legs. 

First he cursed the other cars, then his phone, then himself. With the pain in his abdomen he couldn’t reach. Natasha would have to wait. 

⁂

The large open kitchen, stock full with every kind of food he could dream of, intimidated him. Steve had never learned to cook for himself, besides the basics. There was a necessity after his mother died, but compared to the twenty-first century the variation was limited to borscht and cabbage. 

Sam pulled out a pack of eggs, onions, mushrooms, tomatoes, baby spinach, bacon and some white cheese. Steve cleared the take out boxes from the counter in the meantime. 

“You let all this go to waste, otherwise?” Sam jabbed with a grin as tiptoed to get the frying pan from the rack. 

“I tried asking Jarvis,” Steve admitted, “Not to, you know, stock up anything that might be wasteful. But he said it would be used in the soup kitchen downstairs? So I figured it’d be even better to order in and to have food delivered.”

“Steve,” Sam sighed but held his tongue anyway, “How about you slice some bread.”

“Want me to toast it as well?”

“Not with that fancy sourdough bread, I saw in the cupboard.”

Steve grabbed the paper bag and opened it to see the loaf inside. The yeasty smell came up to meet him.

“This is considered fancy nowadays huh,” he mumbled, but unbagged the bread and found a knife and cutting board. 

Sam kept his eyes on the knife while he cut the tomatoes in chucks, “So what have you found out so far.”

“The doc hasn’t cleared me yet,” Steve kept from pressing the bread into a ball, “A few more days at least.”

“But you’ve been looking,” Sam stated, simple fact. 

“But I’ve been looking,” Steve admitted and pinched his brow together, feeling the flour stick to his forehead, “And I really wished Natasha was here to help out, because I’m finding little.”

“You got Jarvis to help you out?”

“Jarvis?” Steve asked and laid the knife down, looking up and around. 

“Yes, Steve.”

“Any results on those search queries we set up?” Steve watched Sam handling the mushrooms, slicing them in quick thirds. 

“No results yet regarding the queries we’ve set up, would you like me to broaden the search?”

“No,” Steve sighed and let the bread on the counter while he prodded at the tender scar on his side, “No, thanks Jarvis.”

“So no leads, then,” Sam reiterated, “What are you searching for? From what I gathered from Natasha there are plenty of leads on Hydra activity.”

“Sure, if there were any bases raided, burning down by unknown soldiers with a metal arm then those would be excellent leads,” Steve sat himself down on a barstool near the counter, “There’s nothing out there Sam. He’s hiding, doesn’t want to be found.”

“I figured you’d be all over getting revenge,” Sam laughed, “Eradicating that scourge of the earth.”

“Believe me, Sam,” Steve grumbled, “That’s gonna be my idle activity.”

“You sure it’s not going to be having this black man cook you lunch while you sit on your white ass?” Sam glanced over his shoulder, “Get over here and get taught.”

Sam showed him step by step when to put in the ingredients, pointed out how to tell when they were done and how to season. It turned out smelling delicious. 

“But remember, it doesn’t really matter how you throw stuff together, usually it’s all just food and it’s edible. Cooking is just remembering what you liked after you made it and then trying to do it again.”

Steve promised to try his hand at it, especially when Sam made the claim that an adult man not knowing how to cook was borderline pathetic this day and age. 

As he cleared the table and cleaned the kitchen while Sam kicked his feet up on his couch, Jarvis pinged. 

“Captain Rogers, Agent Hill and Agent Romanoff are presently at your front door.”

In a split second he sprinted through the hallway to the apartment door. Nearly ripping the door from its hinges. 

“You found something?” 

“Captain Rogers,” Maria cocked her chin, “Good afternoon to you too.”

“As much as I appreciate your hospitality, this isn’t a social call, Steve,” Natasha gave him a judging look. 

Steve blatantly ignored the comment, “So you’ve found something?”

Maria pushed her way inside, “I suggest you have a seat.”

They made their way over to where Sam was sitting, giving each other knowing looks. Maria didn’t sit, but Natasha made herself comfortable next to Sam, tucking her feet beneath her, pulling the clip from her hair that kept it up. 

“I’d rather stand,” Steve watched the three of them. 

He felt on the outside looking in, not part of the little group and their little secrets. After Insight he had hoped to finally have pushed past it, but now he was back where he started. The man out of time. 

“Steve, if this was a life or death situation they wouldn’t have come for coffee,” Sam leaned back against the couch, radiating calm, “Speaking of which…”

“Yes, please,” Maria eventually took her own place, sitting upright in an armchair. 

“I take mine with almond milk and brown sugar,” Natasha spread out when Sam got up. 

“Sure thing, princess,” Sam snorted and clapped Steve on the shoulder as he walked past, “You want some cookies with that? These cupboards are loaded.”

“This isn’t a social call, you mentioned,” Steve pushed through his teeth, trying to smile at Natasha, but couldn’t force himself to sit down. 

“Steve,” Maria said sharply over the gurgle of the coffee maker, “We found him, we have him.”

If he hadn’t been standing already, he would’ve jumped up on his feet. For a split second he glanced at the door, ready to run out, even if he didn’t know where to go, he needed to move. 

Sam clapped another hand on his shoulder and he hardly felt it, every muscle strung up, ready to snap. 

“That’s certainly some ready development,” Sam spoke for him, “I’m guessing he’s not ready to receive visitors.”

“Or we wouldn’t be here,” Natasha said while kicking her shoes and socks off. 

“I can help,” Steve gripped his fingers tighter, “I can help him remember.”

“That’s the thing,” Maria stopped for a moment, searching for words anywhere but in Steve’s vicinity, “He claims not remembering being the Winter Soldier, he claims he’s James Barnes.”

“And he’s lying,” Natasha slid through like a dagger between his ribs before Steve could get another word out.

“And what makes you so sure,” he nearly barked at her, but her icy glare was relentless. 

It didn’t matter that she was lying sideways on his couch, settling in as if spending the Sunday with a book and a large cup of coffee. She held his anger like a puppy on a leash. 

“Because I do the same thing all the time,” Natasha told him, fact, nothing more to it, “We were made the same.”

“Alright, let’s have that coffee and take a deep breath,” Sam sighed, carrying four cups of coffee, “Sit your ass down, man, let’s hear what they have to say.”

Steve couldn’t deny Sam, who clearly was struggling to mediate between them. But the situation felt paper thin. And Steve knew his temperament, knew his strength, knew that if he sat down between them, it wouldn’t take much for him to break something. For Sam’s sake, he sat down anyway.

“Thank you, Sam,” Maria took her coffee, crossed her legs and moved back to face Steve, “We’re keeping him at a secure location for now, trying to assess whether or not he is still a threat.”

“Which he is,” Natasha interrupted.

“So far, he’s kept up good appearances to be your good friend Barnes, denying any and all knowledge of involvance with Hydra or otherwise. Answering questions and recounting details about his and your life.”

“It’s all an act,” Natasha didn’t touch her specially prepared coffee. 

Steve could smell the sweet concoction. It made him want to hurl. 

“We’ve already removed tracking devices and explosives from his metal arm,” Maria let that sink in, while she sipped her coffee, “But we’ll need more outside help if we want to remove it completely.”

“Wait, how long have you had him?” Steve gripped his knees, hands sweating through the cotton. 

“A while.”

“A while?”

The rage inside him sweltered, burning underneath his fingernails, scraping over his scalp. Maria didn’t let any embarrassment filter through, convicted of her right on this. Her right to keep Bucky from him. Natasha could’ve been rolling her eyes at him, like he was a little kid throwing a tantrum. Sam looked worried, but who was to say he hadn’t been in on it too. 

The house arrest, the concern for his health, asking about Bucky frequently enough to relay any suspicion, but always happy to start talking about something else. On the outside looking in. 

Steve reached for the coffee, snapped his hand back and got up, pacing through the apartment before walking to the balcony. Slamming a sliding door didn’t have the same impact as a normal one, but it wasn’t for lack of trying. 

His hands trembled as he breathed. In and out. Eyes towards the horizon, but unseeing. Instead he remembered how Bucky had seen when he saved him in Azzano. What they had done to him then, what they had done to him to get him here. He could only imagine what they were doing to him now. 

After a few minutes he stalked back into the room, all eyes on him. That was fine, he was used to that. 

“So you have Bucky and now you need my help to verify whether he’s a threat,” he targeted Maria, the only one who mattered in this picture, “We leave in twenty.”

With that out of the way he stalked off to get changed. 

⁂

Seeing Bucky in the cell had been devastating. A small metal room, completely bare except the chains that held him and a one way mirror glass for the observers. Camera and recording devices in the corner, a constant scan of his vitals, brain activity and movements.

Maria had walked in fearless, she knew there were guards with guns and automated turrets trained on him at every single moment. 

And for what. Bucky showed himself cooperative, pliant and answered all her questions. Perhaps a bit snide as to his surroundings, but aware and lucid of the situation. He knew Steve was watching him. He knew they were desperate to find fault in his story. In his truth. 

Steve confirmed every answer Bucky gave him, even when everyone around them had already judged him without trial. When Natasha laid out every micro-expression. ‘see that tick of the lip’, ‘his nose scrunched up’, ‘that slight hesitation’ he lost his temper, slamming the mirror frame. 

“Natasha, I don’t care less whether I’m still his target,” he snapped low, “After what has been done to him, he needs all the help that we can give him. Maybe if we started treating him like a human being instead of the enemy, he’ll start showing some of that too.”

Natasha shook her head, completely unphased by his little outburst, “This is exactly why I’m so hard on you, Steve. Your lack of self preservation when it comes to him, makes it dangerous not just to you, but to everyone.”

“I’ll be held responsible,” Steve jabbed a finger, “Get him out, or I will.”

It had taken them two more days before Maria relented. First unshackling Bucky in the cell, making him aware of the security armed and poised, laying out ground rules. She had wanted to disable the metal arm before Steve met him, but without a quick solution, it would have to be live.

Bucky appeared lively when they opened the door for Steve. 

“Took you long enough, buddy,” he smirked, not showing any of the exhaustion or annoyance with Maria’s whole outrageous treatment. 

Steve stepped up to him, ignoring Maria’s protest to adhere to the six feet distance rule and gave him a quick tight hug. 

“I’m so glad you’re okay,” Steve slapped him hard on the back, “I would’ve gotten you out sooner, but they only told me a few days ago.”

“You’re squeezing the life outta me, you little shit,” Bucky barked laughing and patted back, “Guess they had some reason to be a bit weary.”

When Steve let him go, he rolled the metal arm around, glancing up as the guards moved. Steve gave them and Maria behind him a dirty look. 

“Isn’t this some sci-fi nonsense,” Bucky didn’t seem worried about it at all, knocking the metal with his right hand, “Should be grateful I guess, never were much good with my right hand.”

“I’ll fill you in on everything, Bucky,” Steve clasped him on the metal shoulder, not giving it any thought, “It’s a lot, but we’ll get through it.”

“How about actually getting me out of this room, huh? Think I’ve been observing these gray walls and my ugly mug in the mirror enough for now.”

“Personal hygiene never was your strong suit,” Steve quipped, motioning to go, “You sure could use a shave and a shower.”

“And an honest to God haircut,” Bucky tensed when both guards moved up to him again, but followed Steve’s nonchalance. 

It hadn’t been the agreement with Maria to get him out. It was only to meet. But Steve had enough. Enough of their bureaucracy and suspicion, their rules and restrictions. Bucky didn’t deserve this.

They made their way through the compound, taking an elevator up to the ground floor. The base was small and discreet, somewhere along the DC coast. The salty smell of the sea came to greet them as gulls squaked overhead.

The front was some sort of alternative medicine practice and fit nicely in the street of fish and chip shops and run down hardware stores. 

“Are we in Europe still?” Bucky whispered behind him as they crossed the street towards Steve’s SUV. 

“They didn’t-” Steve started, sighed and pulled the keys out of his trousers, “This is going to one hell of a ride for you, chap.”

He smiled but knew it came out weak. Bucky only frowned, gripping both fists tight. Over his shoulder Maria had followed them out of the building, talking briskly into her phone. Steve noticed several plainclothes operatives getting in position. One turned on the engine of their car. 

It was a lot to handle all at once. Steve got in the car, took off and kept his eyes on the road in front of him. 

“Where are we going?” Bucky smiled at him like it was his birthday. 

“My apartment at St- Tony’s tower,” Steve grimaced, realizing that explaining how Tony was related to Howard would blow everything right open, “Tell me, Buck, what did they tell you? About what happened?”

“Not much, they liked keeping me in the dark,” Bucky rolled his shoulders, stretched as much as he could in the confined space, “Showed me footage of you fighting, telling the guy was me. Don’t see a lot of other people walking around with arms made out of metal. Seeing how we transported to some other reality, I can only surmise I’ve got one heck of a mind gap.”

“It’s going to blow your mind, Buck,” Steve chuckled nearly choking down a sob, “I can’t wait to show you everything.”


	3. Chapter 3

The spy had listened to the bite-sized explanation of what had happened. The fall of Bucky Barnes, his captivity, the torture, the brainwashing. The target clearly didn’t know the extent of it. 

Then he continued to act dumb on the world they live in now. The high-rise, the view, a telephone that fits in a pocket, color tv on demand and a man that spoke over a speaker and knew who was at the door. 

The target personally was very excited about the large beds, warm showers, how scientists cured a variety of diseases ‘they can cure TB now, Bucky!’ how men had been to the moon and came back to tell the tale. 

The spy nodded, smiled, acted surprised or excited when the target showed him how to use a remote control or the microwave. Presented him with a room of his own, empty cupboard and bathroom attached. 

Somewhere where he could be alone if not for the every spying man in the ceiling. 

“Jarvis,” the target said while pouring him a cup of coffee, “That’s what he’s called. Tony created him, artificial intelligence. You can contact him anywhere, ask anything.”

“Huh,” Bucky sat down at the kitchen table, “I’m not sure how comfortable I feel with that, after being watched for a fortnight and all.”

“Of course,” the target stumbled as he placed a basket full of buns and bagels on the table, “Euhm, Jarvis?”

“Yes, Steve?” 

The voice that came from nowhere and everywhere at the same time, set every hair on end. 

“Would it be possible to stop monitoring this floor? My floor? For anything?” the target placed a large bowl of fruit next to the bread. 

“I can limit my monitoring to the bare essentials,” Jarvis responded, “This implies I will still send out emergency distress signals to mister Stark and the appropriate services if anything happens.”

The target glanced at the spy, still with that wistful smile ever plastered on his face, “That’s fine, Jarvis, thank you.”

“No problem, Steve. If you wish to re-activate me, please contact mister Stark directly.”

“Now, next question,” the spy rapped his fingers on the large wooden table, “Who’re you preparing this feast for? You’re gonna eat all that by yourself?”

“Don’t tell me you’re not hungry,” the target stopped when he reached for two giant boxes of sugar cereal. 

“Got trouble keeping some stuff down, that’s all,” the spy wondered how to get the nutrition he needed without the target calling in all kinds of outside help. 

“Oh, last night as well then,” the target put the cereal back down on the counter, “What did Maria- We’ll figure something out.”

“She got me hooked up to a tube.” 

The target seemed insulted by the thought and the spy didn’t consider it a long term solution. This mission was going to last a while, if he was going to fit in, he needed to get used to eating like a person.

“Let’s make you some old-fashioned oatmeal,” the target opened the cupboard, took a bag of oatmeal, grabbed a pot and stared at it for a while. 

The spy looked out the window. They were high up, it was a great vantage point for the ghost. Clear view of Bryant Park and Times Square on the other side. A bit too far for Central Park, but the angle would be all wrong anyway. 

He tapped the wooden table continuously with his metal fingers, rapping four short strokes in quick succession. The mission briefing stated he should report within a month’s time, unless it would compromise it. Two more weeks before he needed to send word out. 

It wouldn’t be hard, the target did seem to be hanging on to every lie that fell out of his mouth. Every smile and appreciative nod. He had never seen anyone so blind to the obvious danger in front of him. 

The target got up, grabbed the bag of oatmeal the target was reading, “Would you like me to do it? I know you’re as lousy in the kitchen as you are on the dance floor.”

“Shit, Buck,” the target flustered and stepped away, “At least I didn’t just grind against the girls, to make their way under their skirt.”

The spy put the hob on and added a glass of water to a scoop of oats. Feeling the eyes burn in his back. He kept his own watch in the reflection for the cooker hood. 

“Are you alright meeting the team today?” the target poked his fingers in one of the bagels, pulling out fluffy bread. 

“Tell me about them,” the spy said as interested as possible. 

He already knew the team. Tony Stark, the Iron Man, dangerous. The Hulk highly dangerous, but unlikely to come up to meet him. Same with the man called Thor. Hawkeye, the sniper, only an issue from a distance, no match for him one on one. The man with the wings had been a surprise, but nothing he couldn’t handle. 

The Black Widow on the other hand was his main concern. It wasn’t necessarily her fighting power, but their similar background and their history. She would be the hardest to convince. Her close connection to the target could help sprout any seeds of doubt. He did not want to meet her until after he had further cemented the good relationship with either the target or the rest of his friends. 

“Sounds like some flipped world indeed, if it’s you introducing me to the ladies for a change,” the spy joked, setting his simple oatmeal down on the breakfast table, after Steve had recounted all the names and relationships. 

“Not today though, Sam, Sam Wilson, will come over later today,” the target rattled on, piling more cream cheese on a bagel, “Maybe I can convince Tony to come out of his lab as well. We’ll see. They are a busy bunch.”

“Well not busy enough to meet an old friend of Steve’s I hope,” the spy shoveled the oatmeal away, clearing the bowl. 

It certainly made the target look pleased. It would only be a matter of time to see whether it would stay down. If this intolerance stayed on, he’d have to request supplements from his handler. 

“First things first, you think you can bring me to a barber? Or do they have fancy machines for that as well?” he swallowed the oatmeal back down with a smile.

“Nope, some things stay exactly the same,” the target shoved another sweet bun in his mouth, washing it away with a large cup of coffee, “Let’s go get ready, there’s one right at the bottom of this building. 

⁂

The target was absolutely glowing with appreciation after the spy had shown the short coiffe, repeating again and again how much he looked like Bucky Barnes, just like he knew him. The spy had taken an extra close shave that morning as well, picking out a navy blue sweater that had magically appeared in his bedroom cupboard to finish the look. 

It would probably be useful to start covering up the metal hand as well, erasing any glimpse of the soldier. 

“Is Coney Island still a thing?” he asked as the target took him down a trip on memory lane on the internet, “Isn’t that just something. It’s as old as us!” 

“Yes! We’ll visit,” exclaimed the target as he typed and pulled up pictures of the fair, “I haven’t had the time to go back myself.”

The target’s phone buzzed and nearly fell off the table and the spy had found himself tense and on edge by the surprise. He let go of the wooden stool, it had not left an imprint, yet.

“That’s Sam,” the target got up to open the front door of the apartment.

The spy tapped his metal fingers on his knees, settling back into being Bucky Barnes before he followed.

Sam approached him with a big grin and an outstretched hand, “It’s great to finally meet you. I’ve been listening to Steve talk non-stop about how great you are.”

“Steve’s been blowing things out of proportion since 1918,” the spy shook the offered hand, giving it a friendly squeeze, “Way before he decided to blow himself up.”

“You’re talking about the serum, or when he crash landed himself in the arctic?” Wilson said with a cocky smile. 

“How about when he threw himself over a grenade,” the spy turned to the target, “Yeah I heard about that, pal, and no it doesn’t matter if it wasn’t live, you dipshit.”

“Peggy was watching, had to do something to catch her attention,” the target ushered them back into the living room, before disappearing into the kitchen for coffee. 

“There’s a lot of guards out there,” Wilson threw a thumb over his shoulder, “Seems like you moved from one prison to the other.”

The spy nodded. He was well aware of the security around the place. The target doing his best to ignore them, but not sending them away. Perhaps to appease Hill after their impromptu walkout. 

“I can tell everyone is still on edge,” the spy put his metal hand inside a pocket, angling the rest of his body to be open, “Certainly is an improvement though.”

“And you’ve been doing okay?” Wilson asked, searching his face for something, “Being locked up like you were for two weeks must have been stressful, just after falling from a cliff in the second world war.”

The spy smiled, comforting, squeezing his eyes just so, “Just peachy keen. Anything to get the mud out from behind my ears and dry socks. You haven’t lived until you’ve spent twenty minutes under a burning hot shower without the heat running out.”

Somehow Wilson didn’t seem convinced, but leaned back as to drop it, “Steve’s brought you up to date?”

As if summoned the target came back with more coffee and a plate of sugary rolls. 

“Are those twinkies?” the spy picked up the cake and split it in half to reveal the cream inside.

“With the vanilla cream,” the target pointed out, happy as a clam, “Just came back on the market, what a coincidence.”

Wilson appeared more interested in the coffee, “Can’t imagine having it tasting the same.”

The target laughed, “No they don’t, but it’s close enough. Must be something in the water.”

The spy stuffed half the cake in his mouth after weighing the pros and cons of eating anything with such low nutritional value. But at this stage calories were calories. It didn’t go down well. 

“Certainly not the same,” he joked, reached for the coffee and decided to make a run for the bathroom instead. 

This gave him the opportunity to listen in on what the target would discuss with his friend in his absence. But Wilson didn’t appear to be interested in gossip. 

“How are you handling up under all of this, Steve?”

The spy let the water run in the sink, soundlessly moving to the door for a better listening vantage. 

“It’s an absolutely mindblowing miracle, I still feel like it’s all just a dream.”

“Just be aware there might be blow-back anyway, he doesn’t have to remember anything to experience PTSD.”

“I think we’re going to be okay, but I’ll keep you in the loop Sam and I really appreciate the support.”

The spy closed the tap and stared up at Bucky’s face in the mirror. Getting so close would never have been possible without the face. Without all the shared memories with the target. A miracle indeed. 

⁂ 

Meeting the Iron Man had been a different challenge altogether. The man was as frantic as he appeared on the news. His personal assistant and love interest Potts was somehow so enamored with the man she was just as blind as he was. 

The challenge was not in the spontaneous or fickle nature of the man, but his incessant interest in the metal arm. 

Stark made the AI make scans through various devices and still wasn’t satisfied. With several sharp and blunt instruments he pried open the panels in the forearm. Adjusting his magnifying glasses to see the inside better. 

The spy was used to this too and held still while the target fussed around him. 

“Tony, they already disabled some things in the arm, are you sure this is necessary,” he crossed his arms over his puffed up chest, making himself look bigger than he already was. 

“Science, it’s all for science,” Tony mumbled, fogging up the metal, “Miss Shield kept me up to date, said they had some complications and I have yet to find any. Interesting that. Why didn’t they ask me to begin with? Makes you wonder.”

The spy actually wondered how much they changed in the arm. His handler would need to know about it, to undo the changes. Perhaps their contact time would have to be extended to include full maintenance on the arm. 

“You’re alright, Bucky?” the target asked for the seventh time since Stark decided to have a closer look at the arm, “If this is making you uncomfortable in any way at all.”

“I think you’re the one uncomfortable here, big shot,” the spy cocked his head, letting it fall still again. 

He needed to be still for maintenance. 

“Steve, darling,” Potts laid a hand on his arm, “Let them at it for a few minutes more and then we’ll call it a day. Believe it or not, Tony might actually be able to help. Help me pick out something for lunch.”

She led the target away, out of the lab, leaving them alone. 

The spy remembered Stark. Senior. During the war, how he fussed over Captain America, raged on about his gadgets and the future. How he smelled of drink. 

He remembered how he still smelled the same when the ghost ran his car off the road. Both him and his wife arranged so precisely and robbed of their lives shortly after. 

Quick and easy. Nobody would ever know, least of all his son, who clearly walked into the exact same footsteps. He would be dead before the end of this mission, most likely by his own doing.

“Don’t worry, you don’t have to listen to me, Olaf, I enjoy talking to myself so much I made a whole sentient AI just to not have him listen to me,” Tony rattled on, still nose deep in the mechanics of the open arm. 

“I’m listening, master Stark,” Jarvis said from the ceiling. 

“Who’s Olaf?” the spy asked and got waved away. 

“That doesn’t matter, the thing is, this is some really interesting piece of machinery. You’d think some bosos in Russia wouldn’t know what they’re doing, but this is some exquisite stuff,” Stark half glanced up, searching his workplace for a drink, settling for a shake, “Thing is, as it always is, it can be improved. Are you getting out in the field with us, John Snow? I can build in some really nice things in there. How’s the weight? We’ll get a physician in to check on what all this is doing to your spine.”

“Sounds good to me, chief.” 

The spy heard the target and Potts come down the hallway before they came in carrying trays of sandwiches and coffee. 

“Ready for that break now, Tony?” Potts gently suggested, “We’ll take it in the lounge.”

“Everything still okay, Buck?” the target crouched down at his feet. 

The spy frowned, something about the perspective was not right. The situation, the whole scenario was not right. The question, the worried line in the target’s forehead, the hand on his knee. 

Before he snapped out of the vertigo, Stark pinged his screwdriver off the metal as he closed the last panel. 

“Your time traveling buddy sure got a great asset here, Steve-o,” Stark glanced up as he watched Potts waiting at the door, “Is he team scheme, tip top and ready to join our raid party against Hydra? I’m sure he’s ready to extradite some revenge.”

“How about you ask Maria or those two hundred messages she left on my phone if she’d like to see him in the field,” the target got up, patting the spy on the shoulder, “We can hardly move around the apartment or there is some sort of operative breathing down our necks.”

“Let me handle that,” Potts said, holding the door open, “Now gentlemen, let’s have some food.”

⁂

A run around the gym was followed by a trip to the private shooting range after a few days. The range was a large complex in the basement of the tower. Usually open to VIP members only, now only open to the two of them. The soldier kicked in the moment he laid his hands on a gun. But the spy had to be in control. Bucky Barnes was only familiar with old-fashioned M1 Carbines and the like, but would have to get accustomed to more advanced rifles as the .338 Lapua Magnum. 

The target with a gun behind him, did make him feel better to be armed himself. That in the off chance the jig was up and everything fell through, he’d be able to arm himself to the teeth and get out of here alive. Very likely also kill Captain America in the process. 

For now he could watch the man as he shot at the outlines in the shooting range. Imprinting on how his stance was off, how the recoil impacted his balance, how he squinted with every shot. This wasn’t in the detailed report. 

The spy had to settle for the glock given to him, and listened patiently to the brief instructions. The weight familiar in his hands, as an extension of his body. A few scattered shots around the bullseye would show enough skill, without undermining it. 

“Interesting.” 

It was the Black Widow behind him, Romanoff, he knew. The target hadn’t mentioned her coming, but she wouldn’t have announced her arrival. And here at the shooting range he wouldn’t hear her sneak up on him with the earmuffs on. Being Bucky Barnes was making him sloppy. Not an option. Not with her around.

“You must be Natasha,” he shook the surprise, letting her glimpse it before he pulled the muffs from his ears, “Steve didn’t mention you were such a looker.” 

“He’s polite like that,” she studied him, letting him know she was quite obviously doing it too, “Болту́н - нахо́дка для шпио́на.”

“Nat,” the target bopped her arm, clearly flustered. 

She wouldn’t get him that easily, “Is that- Is that Russian? Geez, I think the only thing I know is ‘не стрелять!’ For when we ran into them in the war, remember that Steve?”

“We got it from a little phrase book one of the men compiled,” the target grinned weakly at the memory, “Useful phrases for on the front. Glad we never had to use it.”

Romanoff hummed, stepping up to him, “You’re still on the low caliber stuff, feel up to try your hands and the big guns?”

The spy pried his fingers away from the glock one by one as he laid it down on the counter. She was eyeing his hold and would be judging everything as he had done if he would take her up on her offer. 

“Tempting,” the spy cast a look at the target, “But I think Steve and I were just about to head out for lunch. But I wouldn’t mind seeing you pull a few shots off before we go.”

“I wouldn’t mind giving you a little sneak peak,” Romanoff lowered her gaze, flicking her loose curls from her shoulder, “A first taste, so to speak. And if you see what you like, we can make it a real date later.”

“God, Natasha,” the target groaned, shaking his head dismissively.

“Where do you find these feisty dames, Steve, Christ in Heaven,” the spy made room for her at the bench. 

Everything in him screamed danger, action, duck, roll, grapple, kill. Every fiber of his being wanted him to not let her pick up that gun. Instead he crossed his arms, tapping his fingers against the metal. 

She cast an innocent smile across her shoulder, playing the docile little ballerina doll.

With the grace of a snake she hefted the gun and shot the target three times. Twice in the chest of the outline, once in the head. There was enough strength in her stance to commit to the power play. And she moved quickly from the stance to let him analyse it completely. Within a handful of seconds she cast another playful look back.

“Child’s play,” she reset the safety, but held the gun in her small hands, “Wouldn’t you say Barnes, weren’t you a sniper?”

“Of sorts, they didn’t really do snipers in the war. Officially speaking,” the spy couldn’t keep his eyes off the gun, “Please call me Bucky, Barnes is my father.”

“And James your uncle with the sticky fingers?” the snarky grin she gave appeared impressively genuine, “After you, boys, let’s get some food. Steve you must be absolutely starving.”

The target shrugged, “Still haven’t made up for the great depression.”

Romanoff walked with them to the counter to check in the guns. She kept hold of it on their way back, he was sure she was packing. He recognized a slight imprint on her hip. Her blouse loose enough to hide it from civilians. Her ankle high boots could hold several knives, if not a small caliber. 

The target didn’t seem upset by it, touching her waist gently in a friendly manner. He never carried, trusting blindly on his super-sized strength and shield. 

Stupid, the soldier and the ghost agreed. Even the spy kept one of the kitchen knives in the rim of his trousers. And if he had gotten the chance, he’d nicked one of the guns too. With a bit of diversion, a small con, he would be able to. 

With Romanoff on the floor it would be too suspicious to make any play at all. He needed to gain her trust or otherwise limit her suspicion. 

Romanoff brought them to a lunchroom in the lower floors of the tower. Accessible to tower employees but not the public. The spy could pick out at least fifteen plainclothes operatives alongside the guards placed at all entrances and hallways. 

“Have you thought about going public?” she asked as they took their place in the queue. 

“That sounds like a PR nightmare waiting to happen,” the target said, “Besides the fact that Maria would absolutely murder me.”

“But the idea is to have Barnes- Bucky, sorry, run with us, right? That’s why you took him to the gun range.”

“We haven’t really discussed it.”

The spy took that as his cue, “I wouldn’t mind it, it’d be great to run alongside the great Captain America again. But with the whole shebang, not sure the brass is gonna allow it.”

And she knew that he wouldn’t want to. As a spy, showing his face in every newspaper and newsreel in the country. She didn’t understand it might as well come with the mission briefing. His face was out there as much as anything now, judging by the footage Hill had shown him. 

“I’m itching to get back in, I’ll be honest,” the target took a moment to order his full sized meal in sub sandwiches, “I’m guessing you’re here because you got a lead?”

“I’ve got an inkling,” Romanoff winked at the spy and ordered a double shot of espresso with a macaron, “What are your thoughts about Hydra nowadays? Knowing what they did, without remembering. You don’t remember anything, do you.”

“Zip,” the spy kept it at the house soup, no coffee, “Which is uncomfortable, but what can ya do. Nada. Ignorance is bliss is what my ma used to say.”

“She did not,” the target grinned, taking his tray, “You got some memory problems there Buck? Your old age getting to you?”

“I’ll slap you with my cane if you don’t watch it, sprout.”

Romanoff led them to a small table near the large open windows, making sure to take her seat first. The target waited for him, making him sit with the back to the entrance. All to offset him, so he made sure not to let it show.

“You’re okay with your back at the door,” she smiled as if to rub it in, just as they all were settled, “Sam works at the VA, has told me all I need to know about PTSD.”

“What’s that?” the spy gave his best open looks, honest and curious.

“Battle fatigue, is what they called it our day,” the target tapped him amicably on the shoulder, “Sam keeps pushing me about it too, been to a few of his meetings.”

“Says you’re still stuck in the fight,” Romanoff dipped her macaron in her coffee, soaking it, “Therapy has come a long way, soldier, you might want to look into it.”

“I’m sure we can handle it,” the spy couldn’t see the point she was trying to make here, but couldn’t focus on figuring it out.

Every time the door opened behind him, every time the bell rang, every time the barista blasted the milk foamer or slammed the grounds out of the machine, he noticed. The right hand was starting to betray him, nearly losing all the soup on his spoon. 

He had expected her to say something when he switched over to the left. 

“I’m saying, Steve, there is no shame in it. War is a mistress, she’ll lead you on with promises of greatness, but will stab you in the back when the battle is done. Therapy can help unravel the true face of the monster.”

“Geez, Nat, you sound just like Sam, you’ve been spending time behind my back?”

“Well now that you’re always cooped up with your new old best friend, we have to make our own fun, don’t we?”

The spy felt the warm soup go down like acid in his throat with every word she spoke. Giving more trouble to stay down with each sip. 

High pitched laughter, the smell of burned toast, the clatter of a knife on the ground, the blurry of faces around him, behind him. All eyes on him, guns on him. 

“That sounds good, right Buck?” the burning hand fell down on his neck, choking him, “There’s such a long list of movies I have to see, we can make a night out of it.”

“Excuse me,” the spy caught the smug smile tugging at Romanoff's lips. 

Ten people moved when he did, the target not included. Either getting up, turning round, reaching for their gun. The spy kept his cool, briskly but calmly making his way to the bathrooms. He should consider himself lucky they weren’t preoccupied, he had not been keeping an eye on it as he should. 

Undigested soup was already making its way up before he bent down over the toilet. Hurling and choking while he squished the plastic paper dispenser to pulp. His body refused to stop dry heaving even when his stomach announced there was nothing left. 

The tremble in his hand, the sweat dripping down his back, the vertigo in his head. It dulled his senses, it jeopardized the mission. With a grunt he ripped the crumpled dispenser off the bathroom wall, sagging down on his knees. 

“God Buck,” he hadn’t heard Rogers move in behind him, “I brought some water, is there something I can do?”

The spy clenched his hand hard around the porcelain, his gloved fingers tapping softly. He willed his body to stop the nonsense. Breathing harshly in, not letting anything out. 

“I’m fine, Stevie,” he groaned, gulping in a few more shallow breaths, “Just the food not agreeing with me.”

“We really need to find a solution for that.” Rogers placed a hand on his shoulder again, one he couldn’t shake off.

“It’s fine, I just need to take it slow.”

“Nat said you have been losing weight,” Rogers continued, “We’ll go see a doctor, I’m sure Pepper can recommend someone.”

The spy didn’t ask how she could tell. He knew, everyone knew. With a sigh he pushed back up, wiping the spit from his chin. He couldn’t get back in the field and get his check up at base if they wouldn’t let him out in the first place.


	4. Chapter 4

Steve had gone to the gym, while Bucky had his check-up with the doc. Pepper had been most forthcoming. Bringing in a trusted and vetted doctor, approved and signed by Maria, the very next day. 

Originally Steve had wanted to stay, but the doctor insisted. Patient confidentiality and all that. Maria had made sure there were guards and eyes on them at all times. ‘Just in case’, she kept saying, ‘what if it triggers something’.

Steve wasn’t sure if it made much of a difference if he did. Bucky clearly was still himself, as soon as he got the food problem sorted. The couple years apart hadn’t changed a thing between them. Anything weird was just result of the massive brainwashing and torture Hydra had submitted him to. Of course he would feel a bit off, even if he didn’t remember anything of it. Being shot to the future was enough for Steve to upset his stomach and have him gaze off from time to time. 

With a thud he dropped the handles of the weight machine, letting his straining muscles rest between sets. 

If he rested too long he might think that it was him who had changed between them. So he pressed onwards, repping another hundred in. 

After a shower and waiting another ten minutes in front of the apartment the doctor opened the door for him. She smiled pleasantly, nodding as she walked past him.

“So what’s the verdict?” 

Bucky was sitting hunched on the couch and straightened the moment Steve walked in. He waved a piece of paper around, looking as if he got a lollipop with it. 

“Liquid diet, lots of protein, whatever that is,” Bucky laid the paper down, “But I’m in great shape, she said, I think she liked what she was seeing. I still got it.”

“When did you ever lose it,” Steve picked up the sheet, looking at the charts, an hourly schedule and a list of ingredients to puree, “And how long until you’re back in shape?”

“I’m already in shape. Those crazy Russian scientists, must’ve been successful in recreating the serum somehow and gave me a taste.”

“Huh,” Steve turned the paper, expecting more. 

“You think the brass would let me help out? Raid some bases? It would be just like old times.”

“I’ll make it happen,” Steve nodded. 

Bucky never said anything of the sort, but he had hated Hydra before being tortured for seventy years. And Steve was happy to completely obliterate them from the face of the earth for his sake, even if it was just to spend some energy. 

Sitting still for so long made his skin crawl. 

“What’s on the agenda today, chief,” Bucky asked, tapping his fingers on his knee, “I suspect, we’re still not cleared for the great outdoors.”

Steve shook his head apologetically, “Remember we talked about that movie night? We’ll get the whole gang together, popcorn, a couple of beers.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Bucky picked up his list again, “Better start making these shakes. Popcorn is not on the allowed list. Have to listen to the doc, you know all about that.”

He did. Seeing Bucky vomiting his stomach out in that cafe the other day, brought him straight back to 1930. Instead their roles were reversed. And the serum fixed all of his problems. It didn’t give him a short list of foods he could blend into baby food. 

Somehow he was glad his friends would join him this evening. An easy night to level out, get some perspective. 

Tony was the last to arrive, followed in by one of his robots holding a large tray of snacks. Steve recognised them, the whole display dressed in spangles, all cookies, cakes and jawbreakers in their original depression era packaging. 

“Figured we’d make it a theme night, ease Laurel and Hardy into the twenty-first century,” Tony waved his hands around.

“We better not be watching some old ass movies,” Sam protested, “I refuse to watch anything from before the millenium.”

“Sam!” Natasha, draped over the couch, placed a dramatic hand over her mouth, “Didn’t take you for such a snob.”

“Let the record state, this is purely because nothing really shows what our generation is all about except Mean Girls,”

“We’re watching the Matrix,” Pepper announced, placing six bottles of some fancy craft beer on the table, “And no robots at the table, Tony, we talked about this.”

“Except Jarvis, right buddy?” Tony plucked a beer from the table, raising it in salute.

Jarvis did not reply.

“You shut Jarvis out?” Tony waved his hands around.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Steve crossed his arms, “We talked about this.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be dramatic about it, Rogers, this is my life’s work you’re dismissing. There is no way that isn’t an attack on my person.”

“Oh? That’s not what you told me last night, dear,” Pepper slipped her arm on Tony’s waist and led him towards the large lounge. 

Steve watched the two pairs in his living room. Tony and Pepper turning the bickering into doting fairly quickly. Sam had sat himself on the edge of the couch Natasha had claimed, sprawled out with her feet in the air. 

Bucky hadn’t said anything yet, sitting slouched in one of the large lounge chairs. A shaker stood on the ground near his feet, filled with a concoction of peanut butter, banana, oats, protein drink and vitamins. The sound of the mixer sounded the entire day as they spent pre-making several of the smoothies. 

Steve didn’t know who to thank for this to be possible. To have so many people to love and to be loved by so many. Something he hadn’t let himself think about since he lost Bucky in Azzano and dove nose first into the ice of the arctic. Peggy’s voice calling out over the radio. 

“The movie hasn’t even started yet, Steve, and you’re already in tears,” Bucky called out with a smirk.

“You should’ve seen him during the Titanic,” Sam tipped a beer bottle in his direction, “Absolutely bawling.”

“It was still a sore spot,” Steve shrugged, “My mother was always saying that could’ve been us.”

“Certainly wasn’t because you are such a hopeless romantic,” Sam pointed out. 

“Steve, a romantic? Please,” Natasha poked him with her foot, “Every girl I set him up with complains that there was no romance. Perfect gentleman, sure, but it was like going through the motions with this guy.”

“His heart just wasn’t in it, I’ve seen it happen. The only woman he went googly eyes for was the spectacular Ms Carter.”

“We should go visit her,” Steve blurted out, “Together.”

It brought an immediate silence to the room.

“Of course,” Bucky answered with a smile as he always did, “Would be great to see that old gal again.”

“Before we spin off into another flashback episode of long lost loves, let’s start this movie, hm?” Tony intervened, laying back against Pepper, “Jarvis, put on the Matrix.”

Steve chuckled when nothing happened and they sat watching the black screen for a few good moments. Squeezing in between Sam and Natasha with the remote. 

“So old fashioned,” Tony groaned again, grabbing for a handful of Mallo Cups, stuffing two of the chocolates in his mouths before offering one to Pepper.

“So what is this about?” Bucky asked, sitting just a bit straighter. 

“You’ll see,” Natasha popped the Tootsie pop out of her mouth, “I think you two can relate.”

“There will be some shooting, but no war,” Sam mentioned, “But if anything strokes you the wrong way, we can turn the movie off and we’ll put something else on.”

They turned quiet when the movie started, though they had to shush Nat and Tony several times when they made spoiling or cryptic comments. Steve could see what Natasha meant, Neo’s transformation, falling into a world where everything works differently. It certainly was captivating, but a lot of it passed him by. 

At the end of it, Pepper was sleeping softly, but Tony was already suggesting another movie.

“Videodrome, a masterpiece of unsettling movies. Much better than the Matrix, not as much trying to cater to the masses,” Tony muttered, stroking Pepper’s hair.

“Why would you want to feel uncomfortable?” Steve popped another Oreo in his mouth, “Movies should be magical.”

“Did you enjoy the movie Bucky?” Sam asked before Tony started another tangent. 

“Amazing, simply amazing,” Bucky gripped the arms of the chair, “It really makes you think of if all of it is real. How did they do that scene with the bullets, that’s what I'd like to know.”

Steve laughed, “I told you, computers, they can do anything with computers now.”

Bucky used to enjoy anything sci-fi related, reading pulpy fiction magazines and newspaper articles about the latest developments. They watched the moon landing together, but that didn't have the visuals this movie had. 

Steve figured it a good idea to find more flashy movies for them to watch. Perhaps take them to the museum, have a look at the actual moon rover, go to the planetarium.

“I’m sure this movie really speaks to Steve, the strong man self-sacrificing himself for the greater good,” Natasha bit hard down on her lollipop stick, “How heroic and valiant. So inspiring.”

“I thought you'd have more sense than to pull a Captain America,” Sam pointed out. 

“That's not a thing, please don't make it a thing,” Steve could handle the laughter, but he saw Tony tapping away on his phone.

“It's a thing,” Tony was still tapping, “Just made it a hashtag, already trending, it’ll be a meme tomorrow.”

“What’s your Cap moment?” Sam asked her, swirling the leftover beer around.

“Placing my whole life on the internet wasn’t worthy of self-sacrificing recognition? Being a spy and all, I don’t think it gets more sacrificial than that,” Natasha pushed herself up on the couch and tucked her feet under her, “I suppose it needs to be more physical for you men. I did have a little moment to bring the helicarriers down.”

“Your little stunt with Pierce you mean,” Sam clarified.

“Critically undervalued skill, to recognize when you have to take yourself out of the equation. I’m sure you fellas all agree. So when Pierce told me I had a bomb pinned to my chest I put the stingers to myself. Sometimes you have to recognize you’re a liability, when you’re compromised.”

“Giving up control of the situation,” Steve grabbed the remote to shut off the credits.

“I trust Fury and provided him with a chance to shoot the fucker,” Natasha jabbed her lollipop stick, “Maybe it’s a result of my training to be able to give up the limelight to your more heroic men. But the result is the same. Pierce shot and confirmed dead. Which reminds me, Wasn’t he somewhat of your commanding officer, Bucky?”

Steve snapped to the empty shaker dropping on the floor. Natasha was already staring at Bucky, it wasn't friendly, though she smiled.

“What?” Bucky struggled to reach for the bottle.

“He doesn't remember Nat, you know that.”

“Of course, silly me,” she bopped herself on her head and got up, “I think that's my cue.”

Sam got up as well and placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder, “We'll talk soon alright, I'll deal with her tonight.”

“Thanks, Sam,” Steve said but wasn't sure what he was thanking him for. 

But without a word Bucky had snuck off to his bedroom. Tony looked up, waving his phone.

“This is great, everyone is sharing their own stupid moments, there are some hilarious people out there. Where did everyone go?”

“The movie ended, they all left,” Pepper mumbled and pushed her face into Tony’s shoulder, “Let's do the same.”

⁂

Maria had forbidden Steve to be present at Bucky’s reeval, saying that his presence would color the results and distract Bucky from the task at hand. 

“I am hesitant about all of it, Rogers,” she said in her new office in DC.

It was a large room, corner office but one side looked out over a squatters pad and the other let in the noise of a busy road. There were boxes and boxes piled up around her large desk on which she only had a small laptop and a travel mug full of coffee.

“I understand Maria,” Steve placed his hands non-aggressively on his lap, “Bucky has spent time with the team and with me. Before the war and during the war I trusted him with my life, now is not any different. But not the same either.”

“You understand that I will talk to all team members separately, right?” Maria's fingers raced over the keyboard as she shot off another email without breaking eye contact. 

“Yes and I’ve talked to him about the conditions, he’s all fine with it.”

“Alright, alright,” Maria raised her hands, pushed her chair back and immediately bumped into some file boxes, “This office is a pigsty.”

“If you need me to help,” Steve started and got a knowing look back, “I can do filing.”

“I can’t make Captain fucking America do my paperwork for me,” Maria laughed, “But I’ll be sure to give you a call when the boxes need moving again.”

“They seem very stationary so far,” Steve told her, but wiped the smile from his face, “But tell me, Maria, be honest. How big is the chance they let him run with us.”

“Rogers...” she circled around in her chair looking over to the boarded up windows of the building ahead, “Steve. Shield is gone, what you and the other Avengers do, is outside my control. I can advise, assess and help you understand the consequences of taking the former Winter Soldier with you on missions. But I can’t, in any way tell you what to do.”

Steve couldn’t help but feel a bit relieved at her words. 

“And I had the feeling that you weren’t very inclined to listen to whatever I had to say on the matter.”

“As long as that was clear,” Steve joked but couldn’t get a smile in return.

“Just remember, that even though this is your long lost friend, you are a Captain. A leader of a very special team that needs to work together to solve a large variety of great evil forces. Make sure that doesn’t end with Bucky.”

“I keep my whole team in account,” Steve shook off the need to be defensive, “But thank you for the advice, Maria, I’m glad to have you in my corner.”

She nodded, but didn’t respond. Instead of replacing a couple of boxes and pulling out a document. It landed with a sigh on the table. 

“Hydra is scattered, but in that file, you’ll find leads on organisations, people and places that might run a cover. Natasha has the info too. Of course.”

“Of course,” though she hadn’t shared it with them. 

Or not with Steve.

“If you’re going to bring Bucky, in whatever shape or form, know that confronting Hydra might pull something loose in him.”

“And still, people keep saying that, but it has yet to happen,” Steve pulled the file towards him, keeping his fingers on the plastic cover.

“And we will keep on saying it,” Maria reached over, gently pressed her thumb over the documents and flipped it open, “Because somethings are just too horrible to forget.”

Steve looked down at the chair. A large metal construction in the middle of a metal room. Medical equipment, tubes, wires, sturdy restraints. The large halo, tilted back, inviting. Disgust made his fingers curl into fists, but he did not tear his eyes away. 

They did that to Bucky. They tried to make him forget, even though they failed, they tried it again and again. 

When he had met the Winter Soldier there had been no recognition in his eyes. They were only focused on the mission. Steve was that mission. 

Maria laid a hand on his, “Maybe it’s just you that will have a subverse reaction to seeing it in person. Maybe not.”

He left her office, file held under his arm. The picture of the chair as if it was just a simple thing, tucked inside its mids. 

Though he hadn’t planned on visiting Peggy today, he felt that he needed it. Just like he needed to buy her a ridiculously large tray of chocolates. If only to cover the smell of bile stuck in his throat.

Bucky was already in the apartment when he came back to the tower. There was a laptop on his lap closed but humming.

“Are you ready to whip some manners into the Hydra hicks?” he tapped his fingers frantically on the case.

“Does that mean you got the A grade?” Steve slapped him on the shoulder, “If you make it to Sergeant, you just might be privy to this top secret information I received.”

“A mission?” Bucky got up and joined him in the kitchen, grabbing his own vitamin drink from the fridge.

Steve slapped the file on the counter and turned on the percolator, “We make our own missions, Buck, this is just information” 

He watched Bucky open it, right where it had before, like an open wound. The chair stared up at them and Bucky glanced at indifferently before flicking it away.

“These are confirmed locations?” he asked instead, looking at the map of the East Coast area Maria has conveniently marked, “Are they still live?” 

“Some we are highly certain, but after Natasha's data dump a lot of it is in the wind.”

“Ha, talk about self sacrifice,” Bucky sipped on his drink.

“Did she,” Steve was just about to pull a mug from the cupboard, “She told you about that?”

“No she dumped it online, wise guy,” Bucky tapped his metal fingers on the table, “This is right here in New York.”

“That’s where they kept you,” Steve turned away from the file, filling a large mug, “Maria told me they already cleared the place.”

“No reason going back there then,” Bucky rifled through the papers and finally settled on a readout on a place at the docks a couple miles south of DC.

“Anything interesting?” Steve sat down next to him.

“It's your call,” Bucky immediately said, taking his hands off the table.

“I'll have Natasha come in, she has been keeping up to date with their activity.” 

The page Bucky opened talked about a little fishers company that may have delivered some equipment that had been used for the construction of the helicarriers. There was nothing particular about it, or even their strongest lead.

“A hunch?” Steve asked.

Bucky shrugged, “Always had good intuition, ain't I.”

⁂

Tony gave Bucky a simple uniform, sharp blue Kevlar jacket and armoured trousers. A simple star on his arm, the Avengers logo on the other.

They kept his arm covered up, his face hidden with a mask. No one should be able to recognize him.

The moment they dropped out of their van and got in formation, no one even saw him.

Steve had lost complete sight of him and had to make do with a quiet voice on the comm.

It wasn't like he was used to it. Natasha did the exact same thing. Sam would enter the low building from the top flying in high, keeping on look out. Tony pumping out a set of wings on the weekend. 

Through recon the night before, the large underground and partially underwater part of the facility got mapped out. They were working on some high-end robotics as far as they could make up from the logs. 

Getting info on money trails, names and current base of operations was their primary mission. But blowing the base out of the water a very close second.

Steve was the only one carrying explosives though.

“Second basement,” Natasha murmured over the comm, “Requesting convergence.”

“Roger that,” Steve swiftly moved through the loading bay of the facility.

“Copy, moving,” Bucky stated with a crackle.

The place smelled like fish even if it quickly became clear that hardly any fish was being processed here. Guards armed to the teeth patrolled in twos. Cameras and sensors dotted the place, aimed at every passageway or door.

Natasha had setup interference, which gave them a strict time frame in which to move. Didn't hide them from eye to eye contact. Steve hid behind a large machine standing dormant as the guards moved past. He checked his modded mobile device for more movement further ahead and picked his shot to run, making his way to the staircase.

Taking two steps at the time, racing to the second basement floor, noting that it was going down one more level. 

“Staircase,” Steve announced in his comm, “Widow, what's your position.”

“Fifth on the left,” she swallowed half of her words, “Movement on the floor.”

“Noted,” Steve pressed his phone to the door and watched the faint outlines of guards or other operatives moving in the hall.

But he couldn't stay here for long. He pocketed his phone, trusting his own heightened senses. The shield hung heavy on his back, the explosives burned on his hip, a pistol pressed into his skin. His heart hammering straight in his throat, proof that he was very much alive.

The moment the people moved out of earshot he opened the door. It was a risk, anyone could have eyes on the door. A risk that felt good. With forty long strides he reached the fifth door on the left.

The room was seemingly empty, lights dimmed, shadows cast by a few idle screens at the back of the room. He shut the door quietly, not needing to wait to acclimatise to the dark. Various different consoles stood along the side, flickering lights over the sticky linoleum. One wall held a large tilted glass window. It was too dark even for Steve to see what the room was looking down on.

He found Natasha hidden tucked into a corner. 

“They are working on something interesting here,” Natasha looked at her phone plugged into a console as she scrolled too nondescript data.

“Too interesting to blow up?”

Natasha didn't dignify that with a response, “Interesting enough to be worried. There are a lot of people working here, we might need to let Maria handle this one.”

Steve got up and took another shot at peering down to the area below. Through faint emergency exit lights, he could make up the size of the room and the fuzzy outlines of some kind of devices filling up the place.

“They are working on mechanical prosthetics,” Natasha didn't compliment that with a reference to Bucky’s arm, “The lower floor holds subjects for experimental treatments. This observation room looks out over a sort of obstacle course or testing room.”

“I’m guessing those subjects are not voluntary. We need to get these people out of here,” Steve checked his own phone for the blueprints.

Getting people out would not be without casualties and with just the three of them, it means taking care of Hydra first. From experience, Steve would have to calculate in involuntary opposition from the victims as well in any shape or form.

“We need to let Maria provide us with backup,” Natasha unhooked her phone and strapped it into her utility belt, “Take them down with a coherent plan.”

Steve nodded, but pushed Natasha down as soon as she wanted to get up. The footsteps from beyond the door weren't measured or hesitant. They beelined to the door, kicked it open and flicked on the light.

“Isn’t this nice, Captain America? A little reunion.”

Steve shared a tense look with Natasha. She nodded, setting her stingers and getting on all fours, sneaking away. He got the shield off his back. 

“How have you been, Rumlow?” Steve got behind his shield, still hidden behind the desks, “Last thing I heard you got blocked in.”

“Ohoho! That’s right, been out of commission for a while, just like you,” Rumlow moved slowly now, taking calculated steps, “But compared to you, I’ve come out of it, better than before. Please, let me demonstrate.” 

The desk shot away, crashing to the wall on the other side of the room. Steve jumped up, ready to whip out a punch. Mid jump he changed his tactics not to crush his fist on the metal covering Rumlow’s face, settling for pressing the shield to the sternum.

Rumlow huffed, laughed and reached in for a grapple. Steve managed to avoid the hands, noting the increase in strength, but the slack in speed. He flung out a few defensive jabs, changing it up around the shield. 

It gave Natasha the time to get into position. 

Rumlow was more interested in laughing at Steve as he pushed him around, “You sure you want to be caught up getting your ass handed by me, while your bff is running into all kinds of capable hands?”

Steve stumbled back, lost sight of Natasha and shot out wild. If he was right, if Bucky had fallen back into enemy hands. He would murder Rumlow first. He would blow this base and watch it burn to the ground, roasting marshmallows on the flames. 

“Nope! Not today _America_ ,” Rumlow pushed, kicked and pulled out a rifle.

Then Natasha popped out from nowhere, jumped on his back and dug her stingers between the plates of metal covering his shoulders. Wailing, Rumlow spun around and threw her off. This gave Steve the opening to storm the man and push him through the glass window. It was a calculated risk, assuming Rumlow would be stunned enough. Instead Steve got pulled with and dropped the long way down. 

Steve felt his head pound as he tried to get his bearings. He knew he was still in danger, hearing Rumlow’s strained breathing around him, but it was difficult to distinguish where it was coming from. The high ceilings made every sound reverberate through the room. 

He picked up his shield and snuck off between the contraptions, finding training dummies and obstacle courses, between the continuing pressure in his head and strain in his wrist. He had no time for it to be broken. 

“Well played, my dear Captain,” Rumlow hollered, spinning around in the dark, “Making such a ruckus deep within the enemy base. You’ll surely be able to save everyone now.”

Rumlow didn’t wait any longer and started firing his gun around, waving it frantically as he searched for Steve. 

It wasn’t easy to orient himself in the gym, but he managed to stay hidden in a dark enclave while he waited for Rumlow to come closer. 

“Cap, everyone is on sharp, they are sending fire power down and evacuating the rest,” Sam buzzed in his ear, “It’s time to move.”

“There you are,” Rumlow snapped, spun the gun at the enclave and filled it with bullets a split second after Steve ducked away. 

“Engaged at the moment Falcon, but copy,” Steve flipped over the monkey bars, running towards the exit, “Widow, Soldier, report.”

“On my way to clear your exit, Cap,” Natasha panted, keeping her breath strong and steady while she ran. 

Bucky did not reply. 

Rumlow chased him towards the exit, using clunky mechanical legs to keep up with the serum speed. But bullets were faster than both of them. 

Steve managed to reflect them with the shield, when the scatter shot didn’t miss completely. He jumped over a ramp, ducked and stayed hidden pressed up against the wall. Rumlow, lacking the vision, jumped over and kept running. 

The moment Steve got ready to ambush him from behind, gun ready, Bucky appeared completely out of nowhere. In three deft movements he jammed a battle knife in Rumlows knee between the plates, ripped the metal mask off with his own metal arm and bashed him again to knock him unconscious. 

“Exit clear?” he asked over the comm, pulling Steve up and along towards the glowing sign. 

“Clear,” Natasha said just as piercingly. 

The exit sign brought them in a dirty low lit metal staircase. Within seconds they met up with Natasha and made their way out. 

Sam was waiting for them with a van, a phone tucked in his shoulder. The words ‘fish factory’ ‘soup’, ‘sushi’ and ‘Rumlow’ passed as he smashed the pedal and sped them away. Sirens already on their way to meet them. 

“This wasn’t a complete disaster,” Natasha sighed from the shotgun seat, “Nobody got shot this time, right?”

She used the mirror to stare Steve down. He pinched the bridge of his nose, clutching his shield. Besides him Bucky sat absolutely statue still, face blank, arms loose, fingers still on the gun in his lap. 

⁂

It was getting colder. Halloween decorations had popped up at the cafe. Natasha and Sam still had chosen a seat outside. Steve was still wearing a short sleeved shirt but felt a bit out of place with people wearing beanies and windbreakers.

He placed three cups down and sagged down onto the small metal chair. In a few silent minutes they sipped their coffee, watching the people go by.

“Let’s start with the elephant in the room,” Natasha crossed her legs, Sam leaned back.

Steve kept his eyes on the people, the leaves of the nearby park still a dark green.

“Let’s not make assumptions, Nat,” Sam laid his hand open on the table, “Stick to the facts.”

She gave him a cool look, “Barnes did in fact not go to the second floor as stated, he was on the third.”

The coffee in his hand did not offer any consolidation, “He said there was a possibility to reach the convergence point.”

“Sure, that's what he said in hindsight,” Natasha clicked her tongue, “Would’ve been nice to know he diverged when we encountered Rumlow in his special metal suit. Who seemed to know exactly where we were.”

“I could have been spotted,” Steve pointed out, but knew she had a point.

There was too much time in between Steve’s and Rumlow’s entry for that to be the case.

“His new enhancements could have included any kind of sensors, we don’t know that,” Sam intervened, “He came to your rescue at the end, right Steve?”

“He knocked out Rumlow and we made our escape,” Steve drained his coffee, crumpling the cup.

“Keyword here being knocked out. Not kill,” Natasha sighed, “Steve, I know you feel protective of your friend and this can be hard to hear. But I need you to listen to the facts.”

“Him not killing someone sounds like a good thing, Nat,” Sam said, “We’re talking about a guy who knows he’s been used for killing for the past seventy years, he might want to make that decision himself from now on.”

“And he chose not to when Steve was in danger,”

“Bucky has severe PTSD, the ticks, the food, the dissociation, how he was in the car ride, he lies his ass off about it, but nothing points to him conspiring with Hydra.”

“I didn’t say he was, Sam, you told me to focus on the facts, so I did.”

“Please, can we not talk about Bucky like this,” Steve washed his face in his hands, “Let’s… Why don’t we focus on our next step. Maria has cracked down on the facility?”

“They were there within half an hour after our departure,” Natasha clipped her sunglasses in her shirt, “I’ve shared the information we got from the consoles. They are processing it now and they might have another place to hit for us tomorrow. But chances are they’ll turtleneck as we speak.”

“Any movement in the places we’re watching?” Sam asked.

“Limited, if it suddenly blew up, we’d be out there raising it to the ground. Rumlow is a real threat we need to be considering. Whatever Hydra improved on him, also seemed to inflate his ego.”

“And whatever they gave to him, they can give to others,” Steve surmised, “We need to strike him down before he pops up somewhere, blowing people up.”

“And kill him this time,” Natasha pulled out her phone, “I’ll see if they noticed any of the trackers I planted. If not, it would be a simple hop and jump.”


	5. Chapter 5

The target acted reserved for a few days, but after letting him go on a few missions without the spy he was right as rain. It didn’t elevate any discomfort for the spy, the mission to report had been a complete failure. 

Pierce was dead. 

None of the operatives at the facility knew about his task or even how to handle their precious asset returning to base. The first doctors he made himself known to, scampered away scared. The spy had to spend valuable time locating and explaining the situation to any who would stand still enough to listen. 

No he was not defective, no he was not here on a vengeful murder spree. He needed someone to report to, get access to medical and be assigned a new handler.

It wasn’t after he ran into a female officer called Huang on the bottom floor of the facility, that he found someone with high enough clearance worth talking to. 

“Soldier,” she showed her teeth in an attempt to smile, while prepping a table and preparing medication, “Lie down for me. Give me your report.”

Finally comfortable to let his persona slip from his face, he stated step by step his milestones and objectives. Get captured by Shield, gain their trust as Bucky Barnes, infiltrate Stark’s tower, get cleared for missions. He didn’t get the chance to tell her about his obstacles, she seemed more interested in his arm, told him to stay still. 

She popped the panel open and spent her time nosing inside. She got a reading of his vitals, injected him with his usual concoction. And presented him with new instructions. 

“Give me detailed reports on all Avengers. Especially Stark. I want to know their missions, their projects and developments. While Hydra gathers its strength, your reports will be of utmost importance to the cause.”

She told him about Rumlow, he worked with the man before and didn’t approve of his reckless techniques. But he would serve as a distraction while he was off the grid. 

Lastly she implanted him with a new tracker and gave him details for their next face to face contact. Very soon, which might have made him twitchy, but the drugs were settling in. He could make it happen. Three weeks from now she’d meet him at a new location, with new instructions. 

With that she dismissed him.

The contact, the drugs, the familiarity had made a significant impact. It had taken a while before he could look at his body in the mirror and see Bucky Barnes staring back at him. His right hand had stopped shaking and the vertigo subsided. The nausea held. Solid food was still not an option.

It would have to wait for their next contact.

For now he walked back into the living room area where the target sat near the large windows looking over the city skyline. There was a sketchpad on his lap, but he wasn’t doing anything with it. 

The spy sat down on the couch, determined to get back in the loop and back in the field. 

“You used to draw all the time,” the spy mentioned, setting a book on his lap without opening it.

“Do you remember Wilma Petrelli?” the target asked, slipping the sketchbook closed, “She was your sweetheart all summer of 1938.”

“Wilma? Sure, dark luscious hair and legs for days,” the spy dragged his hand through his hair, trying to look nostalgic, “Her ma made a real mean clam pasta.”

“Sure,” the target smiled at him grimly, nothing like the flash of sunrise he was capable of, “You found out her brothers and me got in a tossle. They were bullying some of my fellow art students, calling them real nasty things. You were so angry, Buck. So angry. The moment she defended her brothers you dropped her like a bowling ball, leaving her standing in the pouring rain at the cinema. You didn’t stop raging about it for days.”

“Yeah, I remember that,” the spy laughed, but couldn’t make it reach his eyes, “Can’t have them pulling that stuff on my best friend, now can I.”

“And well I noticed, since you came back,” the target paused, putting the sketchbook away, turning to face him completely, “I’m just a bit worried, is all. But you haven’t gotten angry. At all. At anything.”

The spy searched desperately for an appropriate response, “You’re worried about me not being angry? Stevie, did you hit your head hard enough to make some scrambled eggs?”

“Bucky, I’m just saying, is all,” the target didn’t look away, “It’s what I’ve noticed.”

“So what? You want me to get angry?” the spy asked, trying to tinge it with enough frustration without sounding accusatory. 

“I want you to be alright,” the target shook his head, not succeeding in making his request clear, “Not feel the need to put on a front of sorts. I’ll tell you it hasn’t been easy for me, coming back from the ice into a new world, seeing Peggy get so old, having lost you mere days before.”

“But I got you, ain’t I?” the spy let some confusion show on his face, “I got you and you saved me from Hydra. Again, might I remind you. The war is over and we’re vigilanting all over the place. How can this get any better, I ask you. What I got to be angry about?”

The target searched his face, sky-blue eyes switching left and right, not finding what he was looking for. The fingers of the spy twitched, jaw clenching, he just pressed it back into a smile. 

The target sighed and placed a warm hand on the spy’s knee, “I want you to be okay, that’s all I want for you, Buck. No matter what that looks like.”

“It looks like being right here by your side, buddy,” the spy covered the hand on his own. 

The directive was still not clear, the target did not appear to be satisfied with the response. But peppering in some sort of anger somewhere shouldn’t be outside his skillset. 

⁂

The spy started dropping in hints of not sleeping well, talking about restlessness and only getting about twenty minute naps. It was always better to construct a lie on points of truth. 

But it meant he had an excuse for wandering around the tower at night. Though it wasn't particularly helpful when getting information on Stark. The man kept strange, seemingly arbitrary hours. Pulling all nighters before disappearing for a week from the lab.

It was an easier visit by a long shot. Romanoff was the only other resident in the building he was introduced to, besides the target. And between her skills and clear mistrust, would be the hardest to gain actual solid information on. But also the most valuable. 

The spy had yet to meet the other Avengers. 

“Come in, take a seat, let me have another look at your arm,” Stark didn’t even look up from his work on his suit, “You want a drink? Shakes. No alcohol, I’m off the alcohol.”

“Sure,” the spy rolled up his sleeve and flexed the plates, “You mentioned you had some ideas for improvements?”

“Made several designs,” Stark snapped his fingers, moved his hands and a blueprint for an arm appeared on the screen in the air.

“This is impressive,” the spy ran his hand through the blueprint for a bit, fingers trailing through light.

“I can have someone come in tomorrow, day after at the latest,” Stark snapped his fingers again, motioning to one of of the robots, “It all gets limited by whether or not we can get that old terminator metal off. And of course how many of the nerves can be saved. It’s all a bit of a challenge. We're not saying complicated, too negative a term.”

The robot came rolling with two brightly colored drinks, complete with straws and a small umbrella. The spy wasn't sure if he needed to thank the robot and left it to Stark. 

He was supposed to cross reference the ingredients with his sheet but decided to gain trust with Stark instead and drank the smoothie.

“What else are you working on here?” the spy asked, while Stark already moved aside to have a look at the metal arm.

“Just the suit, I'm Iron Man, not sure if Captain Frostie has mentioned such. For such an alleged tactical mastermind, he’s very one-minded. Maybe you can get him to open up a little bit. Were you into smoking pot in your youth? Sorry what did they call it back in the day before they demonized it? Cannabis is what I'm talking about.”

“Steve hated smoking, saying it triggered his asthma,” the spy let himself fall still as Stark pried open a panel at the side of his shoulder.

“Boy oh boy, was he right about that,” Stark shook his head and hummed thoughtfully, “Is this a tracker that they forgot to pull out? How did I not see that before? Have I been drinking? Jarvis, I thought I told you to keep me off it.”

“You have not been drinking, sir,” Jarvis responded, “I can confirm this tracker was not there during Sergeant Barnes’s last visit.”

Stark paused for a second, then pulled the tracker out. Observed it from a few angles and then tossed it in his empty cup.

The spy put down his drink and lowered his right hand to his knee, but didn't reach for the knife stuck in his belt. Jarvis would be able to point that out to Stark before the kill could be confirmed.

“Lost some time during your mission maybe? Dissociation, like getting blackout drunk without the party before, are you aware it's happening?”

The spy shook his head, keeping his teeth firmly together, trying to get Bucky back in front. 

“Didn't think so,” Stark dug back into the arm, reaching for the magnifying glasses on the bench, “They wouldn't have approved you combat ready, but hey, when did any of the Avengers ever care about that. We're like the Breakfast Club over here, each and every one of us chin deep in mental bullshit you wouldn't even believe. You fit right in.”

He filed that info away for later

“You're talking about battle fatigue, Steve and Sam won't stop talking about it.”

“Battle fatigue, daddy issues, anger management gone wrong,” Stark waved his little tool around, “ You have met Bruce, right? And the big green menace? Talk about some that shouldn't pass combat evaluation.”

The spy picked up his drink again, still trying to shake the tension, “I haven't had the pleasure.”

“He's a bit of a loner, you can probably understand, being the way he is. Brilliant mind, amazing scientist, does the most amazing stuff in nuclear physics,” Stark yammered on, “We’ll arrange something, if you're hanging around for a while.”

The spy nodded and had another good look around the laboratory. Pieces of the suit laid out in front of Stark now pushed to the side. Several other models were displayed along the wall, half a car laid gutted in the corner, opposite was an entire bench of small intricate electronics. 

There were no papers or documents to steal. Any information would have to be extracted from Stark himself. Jarvis would prevent him from taking anything digitally. Shutting Jarvis down would be an issue for Stark.

When he glanced down Stark had fallen asleep, tools still poking out of his arm, gears and wires exposed, spilling out.

The spy had never performed anything but scrappy emergency patching. They had several technicians for out and in the field who were there specifically for the arm. 

The options were few. Sit still and wait until Stark woke up. Wake him up. Or attempt to stuff the mechanics back himself and leave. 

The spy took a deep breath and settled. He was very good at waiting.

⁂

The target was away on a mission. Together with Romanoff, Wilson and a team of Hill’s people. He took this shot to visit the other floors of the tower one by one. He was still aware of Jarvis monitoring every step, but besides trying to disable it, there wasn't any way around it. 

He passed by floors containing the gym, a pool, an indoor racing court, the shooting range, several floors containing offices, a tropical greenhouse and a large cinema complete with attendants who served large buckets of buttered popcorn. 

Jarvis wouldn't open the door to Romanoff’s apartment and suggested sending a message to her phone or wait until she was back from her assignment. 

“But Clint Barton was home and could be reached in case of emergency,” Jarvis informed him.

The spy wondered what constituted an emergency the moment Barton opened the door.

“Yes, he’s here Nat what do you want me to say? Don't introduce yourself, I have to wait until my mistress comes home because you give her the heebie jeebies?” Barton held the door open and waved him through, “No, Nat. Nat… Nat, trust me, okay. Just- no don't come home… I will handle it, I'll keep my hawk eyes trained on him at all times.”

Then he stared at a dead phone, shrugged and pocketed it.

“I think the pun is what did it,” Barton told him, shuffling behind him on one fuzzy slipper and a cast.

Their apartment was a pigsty, their living room filled with clothes, empty food boxes, blankets, an assortment of electronic devices, bandages and the contents of a first aid kit dumped out.

Their kitchen where Barton was leading him, was no different.

“Coffee?” 

Without waiting for an answer, he swished around the leftover coffee from the pot, drank it and started a fresh brew. 

“Can't drink it I'm afraid, messed up my stomach,” the spy held out his hand, “Bucky Barnes, sorry it took so long to get ourselves introduced.”

“Not all on you,” Barton kicked his cast against the kitchen door, “Been less than mobile, then came down with the fucking flu. We're not all souped up like you and yours.”

“I'll have you know I'm an excellent bedside nurse, despite what Steve says,” the spy rattled his fingers on the only empty barstool at the counter, “I can take care of the coffee, order you some pizza, you like ice cream with that?”

“Are you sure you're the Winter Soldier and not some down on his luck angel?” Barton sighed and sagged down on the stool.

The spy chuckled as appropriate, opening cabinets for a clean mug, but had to grab some dirty ones from the counter. Then he took his time to order pizza from his phone. Double dose of ice cream.

“You're the sniper on the team, right?” the spy forced through his mouth as way of conversation, “But with bow and arrow?”

“Yeah yeah, save me the funny looks, I'm sure it all seems very laughable to you,” Barton pushed some junk aside before he leaned down on the table, “Just came into the future, we have all these fancy devices and here is some dude using a prehistoric weapon.”

“It's pretty cool, I'd say, you must be really good if you hold your own between all these super powered people.”

“I'm awesome, that's true, no denying that,” Barton knocked the cast against the counter again, “No offence to you, I've heard about your reputation.”

The spy knew he was talking about the ghost, “I don't think I'd be able to pull that off anymore. But I'm interested in trying out that bow if you let me.”

“Let you? Fuck yeah, I'll teach you!” Barton jumped up, clearly not needing that coffee anymore, “I've got some dummy bows lying around here somewhere, hold on a second.”

Barton sped off, searching through the mess in the living room before running off to one of the bedrooms. The spy felt the immediate rush of being left with an opportunity. But instead of jumping to action, his right hand trembled and his mind swirled. 

He stared at the dripping coffee pot, feeling his whole vision pulsate, swerving in and out. He pressed his eyes closed, gripped the counter tight. He had an immediate mission: make coffee. 

There were a few simple steps left. Wait until the machine indicates the process is done, wash the dirty mugs, fill the clean mugs with coffee, find milk, find sugar, serve as requested.

“Found them,” Barton cheered and waved a set of purple miniature bows and a quiver of suction cup arrows, “Ready to battle it out? Let's settle who the best shooter is, once and for all.”

“I fear you have me at a disadvantage,” the spy forced out the smile and took the proffered bow. 

“Damn right,” Barton shot one arrow off blind.

With a plok it stuck to a painting of the New York skyline, right in the middle. The spy stared at the arrow, mentally taking note of the precision and speed of the act. He couldn't admit it surprised him. Failure was not an option. 

“Let me show you,” Barton smiled gently, lifting his bow, “First your feet, dominant foot ahead, other at an angle. When holding your bow up, turn your elbow outward, very important.”

The spy set his feet down firm, raised his right arm holding it ruler-straight, testing the pull of the string with.

“Are you actually left-handed? Or is your metal arm just more powerful?”

“The former,” the spy gripped his right hand and considered switching, “If anyone saw me doing this back in the day, it would earn me a beating for sure.”

“Breathe easy, bro, lefties are totally accepted now,” Barton switched arms to show the pose, “Now hook your fingers, one above, two under the arrow and stabilise the wire. Aim for the clock over there.”

His right hand wouldn't stop swaying and twitching, but Barton didn't mention it. He strung his own bow, aiming at the clock on the far side of the room. The ghost focused on the target and Barton did the same. The same tension, the same vision, the same breath. At the same tick of the clock, both let go of the arrow. 

Barton’s struck dead center. The other bounced off the rim and fell down on an empty vase, dropping both to the floor. 

“Great shot, man, can't say my shot was so impactful,” Barton laughed, sitting back down with a grunt and reaching now for the chilled coffee, “Don't worry about the vase, it was Nat’s. I hated it anyway. Who needs flowers, am I right? They only smell bad and then die.”

The ghost took another arrow from the quiver, drew it, aimed it and let go. This time it struck the clock, left of Barton’s arrow. As quick as he could, he pulled Bucky back in front, smiling courteously at the joke.

⁂

The spy slapped the laptop closed when the door to the apartment opened. The target walked in, not stopping or wasting a word. But the state of him didn't go by unnoticed: the lacerated suit, the blood on his face and the soaked bandages.

“Steve?” the spy tried turning with him as the target moved to his bedroom and closed the door.

It was not allowed to ask questions. It was not allowed to voice an opinion. The spy could move past this, as his alias, but it was clearly unwanted. He would wait. Quietly he turned on the kettle for tea. The cold weather didn't reach inside the tower, but it seemed appropriate. 

After a few heavy steps and a bang of the door, the target appeared back in the living room. His arm uncovered, showing deep gashes all the way from shoulder to elbow. He dropped a large medkit on the kitchen table.

“Help me out here, Buck,” the target demanded and wet a cloth in the sink.

The spy pried out the contents, taking disinfectant, bandages and needle and thread. He grabbed the target by the arm, sat him down on the stool and poured him a cup of tea.

“Now stay still.”

The gashes were deep and nearly animal-like. A few even strokes, not only on the arm, but also on the back, side and upper thigh. The attacker very likely being a feline animal of considerable size.

The target didn't speak of the fight, clutching the mug in his right hand, staring at the rain hammering down outside. 

“Didn't feel like letting yourself be treated by a sweet little nurse, Steve?” the spy commented as he tied up the first stitch, “Tony has a whole floor dedicated to your care.”

“I can't, Bucky, Nat she-” the target sighed, “I'm so tired of all of this.” 

“Difficult mission then,” the spy stated, “You like to tell me what happened?”

“All this, it's such a mess,” the target shook his head, “Hydra is like a cornered animal. Literally in this case, they are falling apart and getting desperate. But we are running around in all different directions too, distrusting each other.”

“This is about me, am I right?” the spy pushed the target back in the chair, holding him down.

“She keeps holding onto these grudges and allegations,” the target sagged down with a pout, “And it's tiring, I'll be very honest with you, Buck, having to defend you and your actions from every side.”

“Making me feel like a dainty princess here, champ, tell her to take it up with me next time. Don't let it put a wedge in your team now.”

“You're right, I did tell her, but it's Natasha, she of all people knows the situation and her fighting it so vehemently is heartbreaking,” the target sighed again and waved his hand, “Let’s drop it for now, the fight continues tomorrow.”

“You got it, unwind the rest of the evening. Netflix and chill they call it?,” the spy grinned, but pulled the hand down and pushed the suit further away to uncover more wounds, “But we need to get these nasty gashes closed up first. How long does it take for you to heal up after an attack like this?”

“Geez, asking the hard questions, aren't you,” the target grinned and hissed when the spy applied some generous disinfectant, “A day I’d say. Never timed it really, most of the time I get something new before the other thing is gone.”

“Can't really tell by looking at ya,” the spy noted.

Especially compared to his own body, which was littered with scars. The target went silent at the comment, sipping his chamomile tea while the spy worked his way over his back. Lines grooved in his frown, eyes downcast, lost in thought.

“You get nightmares sometimes? About what happened?”

“Don't remember anything to dream about.”

“You remember the war.” 

The spy let the target go. He did remember the war. The men scared, cold, hungry or blown up. Some would cry in the night, some would blow their own brains out, others would get a glazed look in their eyes. The spy didn't know any of those feelings.

“I don't sleep enough to get nightmares, Steve.”

The target nodded, letting the silence speak for him. The spy tried searching in his memories for a similar situation, but Bucky did not have anything to share. The target had a history of putting on a brave face, not admitting to any and all hurt, whether his life depended on it.

“I dissociate,” the spy said and clapped his teeth back together.

Admitting the weakness to the enemy, even in his undercover position, would not be tolerated. Vertigo made him move away, the shakes in his hand made him cover it with the metal arm, gripping tight.

“Sam he...” Rogers laid a warm hand on his shoulder, blood crusting under his fingernails, “He told me about it, that it might be the case. Thanks for telling me, Buck. We’re gonna get above it, you hear. We’re gonna beat this and anything that comes our way.”

The spy couldn't have Bucky respond. Acid pooled in his throat, if he opened his mouth everything would come out. So he gave one brief nod.

⁂

The spy sat on the couch, in the dark. The laptop shut on his lap. The target was asleep in his room. They had watched crappy war movies, pointing out all the inconsistencies and ridiculous mistakes. They had laughed it off, sharing stories from their own time in service. Together and separate. 

After the target had left for bed, the spy had written and sent off his report. It had taken a while to secure a connection, especially in his environment, but it didn't deter him or the mission.

The clock told him three o’clock, which meant he had an hour and a half before his next twenty minute nap. He would take another trip to the gym or make another batch of shakes, but he was expecting Romanoff. Good thing she was right on time.

“A late night visit from a lady, how very indecent,” the spy leaned back. 

He spread out his hands over the backrest, showing her he was not holding any weapons. She wouldn't buy the fact that he was unarmed.

“Хватит притворяться, солдат,” she snapped, soundlessly slipping off the chair she was perched on behind him.

“Babydoll, I wish I understood what you're saying, but it's all lost on me,” the spy didn't bother turning around, “Why don't we keep it to old fashioned American English.”

Romanoff made sure he heard the humm of her stingers, but when she spoke again her voice was alluring and pleasant, “Barton told me you paid us a little visit? Any special occasion?”

“Do I need one, to visit a pretty little dame like you?” 

“You do, if I'm out of town for the week,” she leaned against the couch.

“Well, I was getting a little cooped up in here, if you must know,” the spy didn't crank his head to look at her, just made sure his metal arm was poised and ready for her, “Considering even Stevie won't let me outside on my own and all. So I turned to visit all the floors of the tower. You have a lovely home, Ms Romanoff. And you share it with a real commendable fella.”

“So you paid all the floors a little visit,” she was remarkable at sounding annoyed without any angry intonation in her voice whatsoever.

“Yes ma’am, that I did,” the spy watched the darkness in front of him, feeling her presence beside him, just as tense, “Or am in the process of doing, haven't reached the top yet.”

“Hope you reach it, it's a lovely view and it has a beautiful rooftop garden,” she shifted her weight, revealing that she was wounded just like the target. 

“Thanks for the recommendation, I'll be sure to check it out. But I'm actually hoping to join you on your next mission, you know, when you're all healed up.”

“Are you ready for that? We don't want you spacing out and falling into enemy hands again,” she cooed softly.

“I think I am,” the spy tapped his fingers against the leather, “With Steve watching my back, and me watching his, there's nothing that can go wrong.”

“Steve sure does love to put his blind faith in people,” she clicked her tongue thoughtfully, “But I'm glad he's learning how to be more self-reliant every single day.”

“From the way he looked today, he still has a long way to go,” the spy chuckled, “That's my Stevie for you, stubborn to a fault.”

“People change, you might be familiar with that,” Romanoff’s voice still smooth as silk, “I'd say neither you nor Steve are the same boys you were at the start of the war.”

“Difficult not to, war is a life changing experience, super serum or not,” the spy nodded, “It stays with you. Makes you act like you're still fighting, even when you're safely at home. Does that sound familiar to you?”

“I like to remind you, you know nothing about me, and unless you were trained to learn people, like a spy would, I’d ask you to refrain from making any assumptions.”

“That's some very smart advice and I will take you up on that, Natasha,” the spy lifted one metal finger, “Perhaps you'll let me repay you one day.”

“I'm sure you'll make a most honest attempt,” Romanoff got up, despite her injuries, still light on her feet, “Try to get some sleep, Barnes, I hate to see you wander around so lost and aimlessly.”

Before he could reply, she was gone. The spy got up and walked up to the large window. He pressed his metal hand against it. Instead of the city skyline, covered in the cold, he saw the reflection of himself staring back at him. He held the gaze until his right hand started shaking and he could only stop it by enclosing his metal hand around it. Gripping tight enough to bruise.


	6. Chapter 6

It had been Sam’s idea to visit the MoMa, concerned that Steve hadn't been to one museum in his life. They welcomed Bucky along, who eagerly grabbed the opportunity to get out of the tower. It did mean Natasha stayed behind. 

Steve hadn't wanted to continue this feud, but she had a good excuse not to come. Barton came back with a concussion and a broken rib. Bucky’s visit to him also didn't inspire any confidence in her, no matter how well that had appeared to go. 

It was a relief that Sam bothered getting to know Bucky and actually got along. They spend a long time in the modern art section, making jokes or acting like professional art critics. Steve couldn't help but be impressed. 

His own skill with some pencil and charcoal was very limited to the large opposing paintings and constructions to be seen at the museum. It made him want to try harder. 

Ever since the war, it had been very much on the back burner. Coming out of the ice hadn't changed that. There hadn't been any time between aliens and Hydra, but hopefully he could make more time for it. 

“This one looks a bit like Steve,” Bucky pointed out with a lopsided grin.

They were all wearing some sort of outfit to keep the attention from the public at bay. But the undercover agents scattered on the floor were doing a better job at that. Steve was sporting a set of thick rimmed glasses that were all the rage these days and the shapes on the painting reflected them. Other than that the similarities ended.

Not to Sam as he started laughing wholeheartedly, “It sure radiates a very righteous sense of justice. Should we stop to sing the anthem? Passing by would get us thrown in jail for disrespecting the constitution.”

Bucky jammed his heels together and promptly started singing the star spangled banner, attracting a few onlookers. Some rolling their eyes or giving disapproving grunts at the raspy, tone deaf voice. 

It made Sam laugh even louder. 

“I can't take you guys anywhere, can I?” Steve muttered, pulling the two along before the agents had to jump in. 

“You only take us to the gym,” Sam protested, “And you don't even need it. Let us enjoy these fine pieces of art on a relaxing Tuesday afternoon the way we want to. It doesn't hurt for you to crack a smile either, you know.”

“Becca always told him his face would stay like that as the clock struck,” Bucky pointed out, “He'd be washing away that face like he was chased by the devil.”

“Didn't seem to help to be honest,” Sam bit his lip, but it didn't keep the laughter inside.

They quieted down for a while in a gallery filled with black and white nature shots. Steve commended the brilliant use of contrast, but Sam had his focus still on Bucky.

“Do you know if she's still alive?” he asked in hushed tones, “Have you thought about visiting your family.”

Steve saw a variety of sharp emotions flicker over Bucky’s face before settling on something wistful. It also didn't escape his attention how he gripped his right arm with his left. He slowed down his step, wanting to hear the reaction without butting in.

“I thought about it,” Bucky cleared his throat, “But feel it may be better to leave it like this. At least for now. I don't want to cause any unnecessary unrest for her or her family. Not to mention what Ms Hill might think about any public announcement of my person.”

“Ms Hill doesn't have to think anything about that,” Steve huffed, “If you want to meet your family, we'll go and arrange that.”

“I'll think about it,” Bucky shook his head, “Did you?”

“After she'd seen me on the television. I gave her a call, do it every Christmas too. They live on the east coast now. But she's become really old, Buck, it might be a tough reunion.”

“It's a lot to think about, no need to make any decision right now,” Sam ushered them towards the cafeteria, “Now how is that food problem going for you, still can't keep anything down?”

Bucky shook his head with a smile, “Afraid not, I'm not feeling rather hungry either, but you fellas go on ahead.”

“Pick out a table, Buck,” Steve pointed at one in the back of the room, both secluded and near an emergency exit, “I'll bring you a spearmint tea, you used to like that.”

“Sure thing, chief,” Bucky pulled the classy hat he was wearing further down and sat exactly at the table indicated. 

“Try giving him two options next time,” Sam kept his voice low but knew it was useless when Steve gave him a pointed look.

“Spearmint helps settle the stomach,” Steve said as if it would justify his choice, “ My mother would try and get some if I was feeling sickly.”

Sam got the hint and moved his attention to his own choice, “How are you doing, Steve? It's been a few months and this is the first time you've actually gone out? Get some down time?”

“What are talking about,” snapped Steve and wished he could lower the tone, “We have downtime all the fucking time. Too much so, I'd say. We’re not any closer on catching any relevant names. Or Rumlow for that matter.”

“Yeah? When did you have a conversation that wasn't about Hydra or Bucky?”

“Oh, I don't know, maybe when people stop asking me about it,” Steve crossed his arms, ignoring the reserved girl behind the counter asking for his order.

Sam raised his hands, “You got me there, let's start again, how are you doing?”

Now Steve turned to the girl behind the counter, taking another good look at the board to make a decision and eventually ordering two sandwiches, a large coffee and the tea for Bucky. When he looked up Bucky was staring at his phone, but he caught him glancing at him and the other customers. 

“I'm fine,” he told Sam finally.

He had expected Sam to roll his eyes at him this time, instead he simply said ‘okay’ and ordered his food.

Perhaps things weren't fine yet. And Steve didn't delude himself that they wouldn't be for quite some time. But they were moving forward. He felt he was moving forward. He just really didn't want to talk about it.

“I'm thinking,” Steve swiped his card and winked at the girl behind the counter, “Thanksgiving is coming on, right? I'm thinking I could skip Tony’s extravaganza this time.”

“And invite yourself over to my momma’s home,” Sam grinned, “I see what you're doing here, you sneaky bastard. I'll let her know, she'll be overjoyed.”

Steve gave a cheeky grin and wondered what it would mean for Bucky not to spend Thanksgiving with him in the Stark tower. He certainly thought it would do him some good, to have some familial normalcy. But perhaps it would be good to get some distance too. Sam always hammered on to take care of himself before others. But he couldn't shake that it suspiciously felt a lot like running away.

⁂

Bucky had reassured him on several occasions how totally okay it was for Steve to head off with Sam on Thanksgiving eve. Eventually pushing him through the door of his apartment and shutting the door to his face. Sam bellowing out a laugh, brought to tears at the display.

And after a straining car ride, the homeliness hit him in the face the moment Sam’s mother Madison opened.

“Call me Maddie,” she said and pulled him into a tight hug. 

The smell of spice, roast and pumpkin welcomed them through the door. Family pictures hung on the wall, a dozen pairs of shoes already scattered in the landing. Steve heard kids laughing before a boy and a girl came running up to Sam, hanging onto his arms. 

Sam gave him a regretful look, but Steve hadn't thought to ever see him so happy at the same time. A brilliant smile that reflected the warmth in the house. 

“It's such an honor to meet you,” Aliyah introduced herself as Sam’s older sister.

Both she and her husband Jiwoo appeared a bit starstruck, but tried very well to hide it.

“The kids don't know,” Sam had added behind his back, “That you're Captain America. We figured it would cause them to explode.”

“That's alright,” Steve said just as the kids sped past again, “But thanks.”

“No worries man, you came here for a relaxing family dinner, so we'll treat you as one of our own.”

“That means you don't get out of joining us for carols!” Aliyah pointed out, still a bit stiff.

“Christmas carols?” Steve asked perplexed, “Isn't it a bit early for that?”

Jiwoo shook his head, “It's better to just go with it. Some traditions you don't fight.”

Sam nodded very seriously and Steve laughed nervously.

“Now who’s going to help me set this table,” Maddie came in, wiping her hands on a tea towel, “The devil will find work for these idle hands of yours.”

Maddie clearly knew what a big eater Steve was, as she shoveled more food on his plate the moment a vacancy presented itself. Steve didn't mind. Even if the beans were a bit overdone and the mac and cheese slightly wet, these touches made it ten times more delicious. It certainly was something else compared to Tony’s catered food, everything uniform and perfect.

Still no matter how much the family and Sam tried to include him, no matter how nice the songs and saying thanks actually was, he was still an outsider looking in. It churned deeply within him, despite honest attempts to squash it.

He thought about visiting Peggy. But thoughts of her surrounded by her own family at the home, enjoying silly family traditions and great selections of pie, enhanced his feelings. She had lived a whole life without him, they might love each other still, but it was bitter sweet. 

The children were helping Jiwoo cut up and serving the cherry pie. Maddie had finally put her feet up.

“That's it,” she puffed, “I won't be getting up, I expect you to personally carry me upstairs, Steve. Put those large muscles to good use.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve saw the twinkle in her eye, “Will you be expecting foot massages, because I'm sorry to say that's extra.”

Aliyah gasped, while Maddie hooted a laugh.

“Steve, behave yourself, that's my mom you're chatting up,” Sam waggled a threatening finger, “Don't you have enough elderly ladies on the line.”

“Sammy! You watch your mouth,” Maddie nearly jumped out of her chair, “Who are you calling elderly here.”

“That better not be a bad word aimed at agent Carter,” Steve glanced up eagerly as Jiwoo brought in slices of pie, “She's still as fierce as back in the day and would have your head on a stick.”

They laughed joyously, humming appreciative over the sweet filling with a nice cracking crust. 

“I'll say that agent Carter was a big inspiration for me growing up,” Maddie said, settling back into her special lounge chair, “The work she did for this country was invaluable.”

“How did she take it?” Aliyah asked, “If I can ask. The exposition of the corruption within Shield must’ve been a huge shock.”

Sam leaned to him in a barely noticeable way, “Don't feel pressure to talk about this Steve. This is a no pressure zone.”

“Ah, no, I don't mind,” he reached for the surprisingly strong coffee, “She knows, as in, we've told her. But there are days where she forgets or mixes things up. Sometimes she wants to get back out there to fix the issue. It's tough,” he nodded gravely, “It's tough.”

“So sorry Steve,” Aliyah placed a cool hand on his, “Our dad Cooper was slipping in his final days, but it went a lot faster. Within a few months he couldn't remember his children or mom half the time.”

“We took care of him here at home,” Maddie stirred her tea, tapping the spoon against the rim before leaving it to cool, “They don't really talk about how much strength is needed to take care of someone, day in and day out. You love them, but they don't remember who you are or when they are. Everyday is a struggle.”

Maddie swallowed hard, sipping her tea with shaking hands.

“But I'm thankful. I'm so, so thankful for the time we shared. Even if he forgot who I was, he usually knew I was someone he loved and who loved him.”

Steve noticed Sam’s eyes on his back, gouging his response. He wasn't sure why. Though touching, it wasn't exactly comparable to his own situation with Peggy.

“Thank you for sharing, Maddie, that sounds like an awful lot to go through.”

“Sam was in service at the time,” Aliyah continued, “I've had to console momma on many nights. When he became angry or even violent. She sometimes stayed over at our place.”

“The guilt gets to you then,” Maddie wiped at her eye, “Who would leave their sick husband like that. But I had to keep myself sane somehow. To see both of us through.”

“When he finally went it nearly felt like a relief,” Aliyah set her cup of coffee on her lap, “I know I'm not supposed to say it, but it's true. For us, for momma, but also for him. To be out of his pain and confusion.”

Steve nodded wishing the pie didn't taste like clay in his mouth. Sam laid a hand on his shoulder then. Squeezing just a fraction.

“How about we turn the mood around before the night is over,” he announced smoothly, “Momma always likes to bring up embarrassing childhood stories, but maybe Steve has some to tell as well.”

“Oh now, that's not rightly fair,” Steve laughed, grateful for the change in topic, “I have plenty of stories that don't take place in my boring childhood. Have I ever told you about the time I punched Hitler?”

Sam groaned, while there was more interested humming from the ladies at his side. The rest of the evening was spent recounting tamed up stories. It really tied the whole day together.

Sam walked him out around midnight. He would stay with his family over the weekend. Steve would go back to the tower, check up on Bucky and try to make amends with Natasha.

“I had a really good time, Sam, you'd nearly say I'm thankful I invited myself over,” Steve pulled him into a tight hug, getting some muffled grunts and a few pats on the back in return.

“Well you better get used to this, they'll be expecting you at every occasion. So practice that singing.”

“I won't, else y'all have nothing to laugh about.”

Sam walked him to his car and opened the door, “Listen Steve,” Sam paused, thinking about the words, “I care about you, man, I know it's very depression era to put up a strong front, but know I'm here any time if you want to talk or hang out.”

“Thanks Sam,” Steve nodded, “I really appreciate it.”

“Just, I'm a little bit worried, so I wanted to reaffirm, I'm here for you.”

“I know Sam, really, but I'm a fighter, I'm gonna be alright.”

Sam slapped him on the back, “See you soon then Steve, enjoy your thanksgiving weekend.”

⁂

“I remember this being a lot more exciting,” Steve said as they walked away from the Cyclone roller coaster at coney island. 

“I remember you getting sick all over my new shoes,” Bucky mentioned, “You ready for the next ride? I see the parachute drop is not running.”

“We still can, I've jumped out enough airplanes without a parachute,” Steve pushed the sunglasses higher up his nose, even though the sun was dipping low.

It was near freezing, but he only needed a light jacket. Bucky was wrapped up in a hoodie and coat, which he was drowning in.

“Are you kidding me, Steve, I can't let you run off and do anything, can I,” Bucky shook his head, hiding his shaking hand in his pockets.

“Let's get a hot dog, then we go on the Wonder Wheel,” Steve pointed at the large Ferris wheel.

“A hot dog, huh,” Bucky wandered with him to the kiosk, “You sure you don't want me to win you a teddy bear or something. I'm a pretty decent shot or so they say.”

“I can win my own damn bears now,” Steve puffed himself up, “These muscles aren't just for making the dames swoon.”

“Otherwise that sorta talk does it,” Bucky laughed when Steve flexed, “I haven't seen you around any other lady friend actually. You're telling me, you're still hung up on Carter?”

“It's not about Peggy,” Steve ordered his double dog with everything on it, “Nat tried setting me up, but that didn't go so well.”

“Who wouldn't want a piece of a big cut of justice? There something wrong with these millennial girls?”

Bucky got a bottle of water and ushered him to stand under a space heater. The docks were still filled with people despite the cold. Steve was appreciative of the New Yorkish mentality to let famous people be. No prying eyes, people desperate for an autograph or picture. 

“Your mind still in the fight then, you were ready to settle down with her,” Bucky sipped the drink before scanning through the crowd.

Steve had noticed that he had been doing this a lot more obviously now. Noting all the exits and windows. Keeping track of all people walking in and out. Following all his tails with scrutiny. It made Steve wonder how much of it was a reflection of how he looked at a room.

“Ever fighting, that's me,” Steve stuffed half the hot dog in his mouth, “Peggy understood that.”

“And those Natasha paired you with, they wouldn't?”

Steve shrugged a shoulder, “Maybe. It's about shared life experience too.”

“That sounds like one of your USO speeches,” Bucky tapped a finger against his metal arm and quickly pulled it away, “You know, rehearsed.”

“Damn Buck,” Steve licked his fingers, “You’re not letting this one go. Do you have an eye on a special someone, or do you have a bet going?”

“Just curious,” Bucky grinned, another cold blast of wind made him huddle in his scarf.

“If you say so,” Steve threw away his trash and pulled Bucky in by the shoulders, “I hope you know there is zero chance with Natasha. For so many reasons.”

“I'm not that stupid, Steve. Please don't insult me. Besides, doesn't she have a thing with Clint?”

“I'm sure everyone asked would say 'it’s complicated’.”

Steve pushed another whole hot dog in his mouth licking the mustard dripping down his chin. Bucky nearly choked on his gulp of water, laughing full bellied before handing him a napkin.

“The twenty-first century certainly is treating you in different ways,” Bucky pulled some more napkins from the dispenser.

Steve felt his cheeks heat up, wiping fervently at his mouth, “It's the serum. I just need a lot of food.”

“Tell that to all the guys you gave your food to in the great war,” Bucky waved his bottle at him, putting up a stern voice, “No I don't need the energy, it's an all-in package.”

“Fine imitation of president Roosevelt, there, that don't sound like me at all,” Steve tossed all his trash and wrappers and started them in the direction of the Wonder Wheel.

“Good, because that was exactly what I was going for.”

“It's better than your French,” Steve knocked him on the shoulder, bumping into a family.

Bucky started apologising profusely, tipping his hat at the disgruntled mother.

They made their way through the crowd of tourists. Christmas carols were blasting over the speakers. Little fairy lights and wreaths were hung up for decorations. The parachute drop may be out of order, it proved an impressive light show.

The line for the Wonder Wheel was short. Even the tourists were not inclined to sit twenty feet up in the cold. They gave them a separate carriage. 

“I'd have to say, this view beats that from the tower any day,” Bucky said, propping his feet up, “There's just something about the lights and the water that makes it more magical.”

“It's certainly more nostalgic,” Steve glued his face to the plastic window, “I don't remember ever having enough money for this ride though.”

“No, you needed to go on the Cyclone and prove your manliness,” Bucky chuckled, gripping tight at the padded seats.

“I still do,” Steve took out his phone for a photo, “Let's take a selfie. That's a picture you take of yourself.”

“I know what a selfie is,” Bucky made place on the small couch, “The gratuitous amount of television I watch during the downtime has brought me all up to speed.”

“Good, you can tell me all about what's going on with global warming and all.”

“Basically it's-”

“Not now, you dink, give me a smile,” Steve held the camera at arms length.

They smiled, Steve tapped and looked at the result. Bucky didn't seem very interested. But the result showed a large grin that didn't reach his eyes. Nothing like the sugar sweet charms he used to throw around.

“About that,” Bucky kicked his feet back up the opposing seat, “Am I still benched because of what happened at the docks?”

Steve opened his mouth and shut it again, “Something like that,” he shook his head, “It's Natasha, she doesn't work well with people she… hmm.”

“Doesn't trust?”

“She already made up her mind about,” Steve settled, “No second chances.”

“Ironic,” Bucky hummed.

They reached the top of the Ferris wheel and the carriage swayed.

“She paid me a little visit,” Bucky said, watching Steve, not the view, “When you came back from your trip to the zoo.”

Steve was busy making more snapshots of the skyline and huffed, “And what did she say?”

It didn't come as a surprise, really. She probably kept tabs on him in all kinds of ways. Likely some of the agents were hers as well. Working outside of Maria’s oversight.

“We kept it civil, no worries,” Bucky's hand was shaking and he pressed his fingers against his temples, “Just a show of dominance, really, since I was in her home with Clint.”

“Oh,” Steve watched out over the water.

The twinkling lights from the harbour reflected, pretending to be a starry sky. It was all fake.

“I told her too, I was ready to get back in,” Bucky kept tapping on the plastic window sill.

“And let me guess, she told you off.“

“Not in so many words. She used a lot of tact,” Bucky stopped his tapping when the wheel started up again.

“And what do you want?” Steve dropped his phone in his lap.

Bucky looked back at him, searching his face, heart rate elevated, blood draining.

“What?” Bucky asked, his laugh awkward, “What are you asking here now?”

“What do you want to do?” Steve’s frown increased, “Do you want to keep fighting, like we do. Or live on a farm somewhere. Maybe go to school, get an engineering degree. You can do anything you want to do.”

Bucky turned away sharply, but his reflection in the window showed an empty, emotionless expression.

“I follow you, Stevie, like I did before, in the war, all my life,” he showed the biggest smile when he turned back, “That’s what I do.”

The carriage stopped and the attendant opened the door, ushering them out, to let other people in.

“You want another ride on the Cyclone? Or you need more hot dogs?”

Steve bit his lip. He wanted to continue the conversation. He wanted to talk about a different future. Sam had suggested wrestling. Now that didn't sound particularly enticing. But the possibility of hanging up his hat somewhere. Even if it wasn't possible for him to give up the shield, he wanted that for Bucky.

“Hot dogs, no, but let's see if they have any toffee apples.”

⁂

Hydra had popped up, showing its face on the east coast. They had occupied a range of warehouses near an old runway. 

Maria had arranged a board room at the tower, explaining the situation. It quickly became clear that there was hardly anything current to go on. They'd be going in mostly blind. They had old blueprints of the compounds and some guard routes. All else were estimations and assumptions.

After tracking money and shipping, they found reasons to believe this was another robotics facility. Natasha immediately let them know they could expect Rumlow to be on the premises. In his metal suit. That there might be others.

“Captain Rogers,” Maria snapped off the screen beside her, “As always, if you bring Sergeant Barnes, this will be your responsibility. Will he be on your team?”

All the other times before, Steve had responded negatively. To keep Natasha satisfied, somehow. But that wasn't working. 

The size of the operation would require more hands. Clint was eager to join their force and Tony would be on standby, for when they broke the silence and started rounding people up. The site was too big and spread out.

He needed an extra hand on the ground.

“He'll join us this time,” Steve kept firm, stayed convicted, even under the room's scrutinising gaze.

After a pause, Maria nodded, “Very well. Then let's go over the plan.”

After the brief, Natasha grabbed Steve by the sleeve. The action was subtle, but effective. She purposefully thanked Maria, making sure they were alone for their chat.

“If this is about Bucky, Nat…” Steve started the moment the door closed.

“Steve, Steve, listen to me first,” Natasha pulled him to a chair and sat him down, “I know. I know what he means to you and we haven't known each other for that long, but listen to me just this once.”

Steve sighed and nodded. He hadn’t been doing Natasha and their friendship any favors lately. She deserved a whole lot more than that.

“Keep your shield up. Every time,” Natasha held her stance wide, arms crossed, “Anyone call for help, you're rushing through a door, there is a gun in play. Even if it’s not directed at you. Keep. Your. Shield. Up.”

“Of course, Natasha, that's what it's for,” Steve nearly wanted to comfort her, she looked so distressed.

He couldn't tell if this was part of an act or if she was showing something more genuine.

“Don't just brush this off, Steve,” she smirked weakly, “I'd joke and call you an idiot, but I need you to know I'm serious.”

“When do I ever not take you seriously, I put the highest value in your opinion.”

“That's the thing, Steve. When it comes to Bucky, you don't. You've disregarded every fact or opinion I've given,” Natasha showed a warm smile, never making him feel bad, “Just this time, I need you to listen to me. Keep your shield up. Even if it's me, or Sam or, yes, even Bucky.”

Steve resisted the urge to flat out deny any such situation and come to Bucky's defence. Instead he got up and gave her a hug.

“I do very much appreciate you, Natasha,” he pressed his nose onto her hair, “I'm sorry I have been such a crooked friend.”

“So you'll keep your shield up?” Natasha's voice was muffled against his chest.

“I will keep my shield up,” he said, “For anybody.”

Natasha patted him on the back, “Good, now get your plush pecs out of my face, before I suffocate.”

Steve laughed and let her go, leaving a friendly hand on her back. They joined the others in the lounge. Sam had made coffee and Clint was elbow deep into a pack of cookies. 

“We’re all on the same page then?” Clint asked, crumbs falling on his shirt, “I just got my foot back, hate to break something again because of sloppy team management.”

“Always nice to have solid feedback, Clint,” Steve poured himself a cup with a nod to Sam, “Nat and I will not be the problem. But I think we can all use some team building fun before we head out. The whole group.”

“You suggest we go bowling?” Sam threw in and nicked a cookie. 

“Let’s do poker,” Natasha smiled and wrapped her arm around Steve’s waist, “We can spice it up, if anyone is interested.”

“If you want to see some people in their underwear we’d better just go to the pool,” Sam pointed out, but Steve noticed the twinkle in his eye. 

Anyone here would be enticed by raising the stakes of the competition. 

“She’s more interested in the figuratively naked,” Clint dunked his cookie and half of it floated to the bottom of his cup, “We’re not trading secrets, you know everything already anyway.”

“Spoilsport,” Nat grinned widely, predatory. 

“It’ll have to be good old fashioned dinner,” Steve decided, “The duo with the lowest chips will have to cook dinner for everyone.”

“What happened to money?” Clint pointed out, pursing his lips in worry.

“You want to play over money with Tony?” Steve laughed and shook his head, “He’ll be bluffing every single round.”

“He’ll be doing that anyway,” Natasha poked him in the ribs, “Dinner sounds good. I look forward to your home cooked depression era boiled potatoes, Steve.” 

“I also look forward to your beef stroganoff,” Steve ruffled her hair and got the most menacing glare back. 

They set it up the same evening. In one of Tony’s very large entertainment rooms. Steve hadn’t even known they had a special room for this, with a large round table, felt in the middle, bar at the end. 

Maria had offered to play dealer. 

“Considering I’m the least likely to hide a card up my sleeve,” she explained, cocking her head at both Natasha and Clint. 

“Her saying that will make it twenty percent more likely for her to start hiding cards up her sleeve,” Natasha crossed her legs at the table, sipping a double whiskey on the rocks. 

Sam sat next to her with a bourbon, trying to be fancy, but actually just eyeing the beer Clint had in his hand. Tony was still busy mixing something special at the bar. 

Steve had sat Bucky down between him and Clint, it would put him in direct line of sight of Natasha. The hypothesis being if they saw each other open, laughing and having fun, the ice might melt. 

It hadn’t started promising. Before they went down, Bucky had settled himself in front of the toilet. Throwing up and cracking the porcelain to keep the world from spinning. But he absolutely refused to go to the doctor and denied feeling bad enough not to come on top of that. 

Besides the hiccup, he put on a good front sitting at the table. Fingering the cards between gloved fingers. 

“Anti-slip pads,” Tony pointed out when they started and sipped his drink from a straw, “How you keep anything between those metal fingers is beyond me. So easy to fix, just a little ribbed rubber and your handling improves tenfold.”

“Still working on that arm then?” Sam tossed in a few chips at the table, “It’s been a long time coming, Tony, what’s the hold up.”

“You think this little pet project is the only thing I have running?” Tony shook his head, “I have a whole new suit on my plate, not to forget Rodney’s, Natasha’s special stinger requests, _your_ new and improved wings. Do I hear a thank you echoing through the hallways? Yes, yes that’s enough groveling.”

“I’ve also had a hand in that,” Maria lifted her hand and a glass wine in the other, “Tony has been helping me develop more tracking and sensor apps. We need to stay one step in front of Hydra, not the other way around.”

“No talking shop,” Sam protested, “I’m here to win a delicious home cooked meal, all that talk is for tomorrow.”

“Good point,” Steve glanced at his cards and raised, “To be honest, I’ll be putting all my cards against you Sam, your cooking is the best of everyone here.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Steve,” Sam leaned over the table, “But it better not be Bucky losing, we’ll all be drinking smoothies.”

“Nothing wrong with smoothies,” Tony tapped the table, “Very efficient, healthy and tasty too. Make them with almond milk, bananas and kale. Add some blueberries.”

“You better stop right now before I claim you the worst cook, Tony,” Clint waggled his beer bottle at him. 

“And while you were bickering amongst yourselves,” Natasha leaned back, looking smug, “I won first round.”

“Let’s see if we can get all these men in the kitchen,” Maria winked at her.

“I feel some illegal collusion is going on,” Tony slapped the table and his stack of chips tumbled. 

Bucky put on a great smile, but leaned in close to Steve, “You gotta help me, pal, I absolutely can not walk out the loser here.”

“Don’t you worry, buddy,” Steve grabbed him by the shoulder, “If so, I’ll help you clean up those blenders for you.”

“No collusion!” Tony turned to Maria, “Aren’t you the dealer, do something about this scheming.”

“She was the one to start,” Clint pointed out and then made some obvious hand signals to Sam who squinted and nodded in agreement. 

“That’s it,” Tony slammed his virgin sex on the beach back and got up, “I’m getting Pepper for this. No way I’m going to be standing in that kitchen alone.”

“Didn’t realize cooking struck so much fear in the modern man,” Bucky said tapping on the felt table, “We cooked all the time didn’t we, Steve. It might not have been very good, we still learned some recipes.” 

“Broth of broth was definitely my favorite,” Steve laughed, “And it’s not like we didn’t spend the majority of the time at the automat. Cooking’s been a while for me.”

“You’ve been doing a lot of take out,” Sam liked to point out, “Why try your hand at cooking when you have everything at your fingertips.”

“And here I thought you’d be a responsible one,” Natasha cupped her face, like she would be twirling her hair between her fingers, “The family man, the American dream, show us how it’s done, Captain America.”

Bucky burst out laughing like a hyena, slapping his thigh at the absurdity. The rest joined in when Steve tried to pout at the reaction. 

“Don’t worry Steve, my bro, I feel you,” Clint held a fist up, ready to box, “Nothing beats some decent New York take out, am I right?”

“Ain’t that the gospel truth. pal,” Steve boxed his hand and struck a little cross, “I’d call on God for help, but don’t think he’s listening anymore.” 

“Don’t worry, Steve,” Natasha raised her glass in toast, “Instead of God, we’ll have your back.”

They clinked their glasses together, murmuring pleasantries. 

“Did I miss the toast?” Tony came in, pulling Pepper by the hand, her heels in her hand, her hair loose on her shoulders, “Don’t tell me you toasted without me. We’ll have to do it again. What was it this time? The destruction of Hydra, or something a little bit more classic. We’re all soulmates, how does it go? We're a box of chocolates that gets bigger.”

“You’re not making sense, Tony,” Pepper giggled as she dragged up a chair to fill in at the table. 

“Shall we restart the round then?” Maria asked, sharing another knowing look with Natasha. 

“First, a toast then,” Steve raised his glass of the virgin apple martini Tony made for him, “To the best team a person can have.”

“So to us then,” Clint jammed his beer bottle against Steve’s glass, “Because we’re awesome.”

They cheered, spilling drinks all over the cards and the felt table. It wasn’t late enough in the evening not to care about it. So Pepper and Bucky immediately got up for some paper towels. They continued their game after, well into the early mornings. The first drop out was Steve, he raised his hands in defeat, promising a feast for all. 

They continued for glory, of which Natasha won. She spread out her winning hand like she wasn’t even surprised. A pair of queens. Just to rub it in, she pulled the chips in front of her, setting them in neat little stacks. She offered to shake hands with anyone at the table. 

It had taken an additional hour for Tony to prove she was cheating. But he failed. 

⁂

The operation was tough and a lot bigger than the one at the docks. Their objective had changed the moment they realized the victims of the experimentation were locked up in one of the buildings. 

No basements this time, but an impressive security team managed the compound. Somehow they had to sneak in, get the innocents out, capture all Hydra officers and secure any and all information. 

Clint was stationed outside, clearing a path for them from the radio tower. His arrows eliminated targets, silent and efficient, hardly noticed by the staff. 

Steve, Bucky and Sam ran around, hiding and dragging them out of the way to delay their discovery. They would cover the building that most likely held any of the victims, who incidentally also posed the biggest threat if volatile. 

Natasha had snuck her way further up the compound. She was set to deal with any researchers, tagging them with trackers and keeping a general ear out for any commotion. 

It was unclear where and if Rumlow was in the area and if Natasha would be alright on her own if she encountered him. 

Steve decided to trust her ability to stay hidden or to talk her way out of anything that she couldn’t. 

Maria stood on standby together with Tony on the edges of the area, trucks camouflaged in the arid landscape. Too far away for anyone’s liking, but they would be busy picking up anyone who would come running out if something went sideways. The opposite of what happened last time. 

“I’m picking them clean here, guys,” Clint spoke of the intercom, “It’s almost a little too easy.”

“Easy as in they know we’re here, but don’t want us to know it yet?” Natasha buzzed back, keeping her voice low. 

“We’ll be on our guard,” Sam gave Steve a worried look. 

Steve shrugged, but shared his concern. They were inside a long stretch of hallway. A large docking gate stood closed before them, they already knocked out the one guard standing in the small control room. It being only one was worrying on its own. 

Steve hit the switch, the machine panel was old and the roll up door loudly and slowly began to crawl its way upward. If they didn’t know they were here now, they would soon enough. 

Bucky cocked his gun and Steve saw the row of armoured shoes standing at the ready behind the door. 

“Falcon,” he hissed, pointing him into position. 

There was not enough room for the wings here, no windows to break through, so Sam fell back, pulled the gun off the safety. 

“We’ve made contact,” Steve voiced on the intercom, pulling up his shield. 

Before the roll up was even to their thighs, a metal hand grabbed hold of the bottom and crumpled it upwards like a piece of paper. 

Immediately people for both sides stormed in, claws extracted, sprinting at high speeds. Their modified limbs were similar to Bucky’s. Gleaming metal, that renounced bullets and could take a beating. Reaction times, strength and velocity increased, but they didn’t rival Bucky’s serum enhanced body. After an explosive spurt, the bodies of their assailants would tire out, leaving them hardly able to move with the weight of their limbs.

The biggest issue was the large volume. Exactly the mess Steve had fought a few weeks before. He held his shield high, pushing and smashing from all sides, aiming for joints and weak spots. The deafening sound of gunshots echoed through the hall, the smell of blood and sweat rose through his nose. 

It took him back to the war, to the alien invasion. The mindless killing of the enemy, the mechanical dance of violence. A crack of bone, the slick of blood, the thundering in his chest. 

“They have wiped the place,” Natasha spoke in his ear, “This is a trap.”

“No kidding,” Sam groaned, catching a fist on his kevlar. 

“Keep going, we’ll do as much as we can,” Steve replied, keeping Maria and Tony in the back of his mind. 

“Roger,” Natasha buzzed out. 

“Let’s do this,” Sam confirmed. 

He slid in between two assailants and Steve and deployed his wings, effectively blocking both of them. Steve hefted his shield as they jumped up, grabbing one by the belt and flinging them into each other. A bash with the shield knocked them out good. 

Three more rushed towards them, one of them charging in low. Sam spun his wings around them, giving some cover fire while Steve singled out the one aiming for their legs. The wings around him reverberated, metal clanging hard against metal as Sam took the hit. Steve jumped up just before the impact, using his opponent as a springboard. In the air he flung his shield to the other two, crowding Sam. One got knocked on the head, the other dodged, aiming his blind rage towards Steve. 

The one that got jumped set his claws in his leg, dragging his way up, pulling Steve down. While Sam tried to push the other enemy with the butt of his rifle, Steve rammed his elbow down. The helmet dented, the face of the man drove deep into the concrete, blood pooling. 

Two loud gunshots declared the end of their last opponent. Sam wavering on his feet, the gun still pointed at the dead. Steve looked around the room, at the devastation. 

“Cap to Command,” he called, holding the earpiece to block out the ringing in his ears. 

“Go ahead, Captain.”

“Hangar one is clear,” he pulled the claws out of his leg and grabbed Sam’s hand to stand up. 

“Any survivors?” Maria asked.

“Some,” Steve picked up his shield and patted Sam on the shoulder, “We’ll continue on.”

“We’ll take care of it,” Maria paused, her hand still on the call button, “Stay alert, Captain.”

“Roger that.”

Nobody had to say anything. Steve was already well aware of what they wanted him to stay alert on. Sam stepped around the bodies scattered on the floor, changing the clip in his rifle, but the worried glance was painted on his face. 

Bucky was nowhere to be seen. 

Steve sighed, the air hissing through his clenched jaw. He nodded. 

“Soldier has disappeared,” Sam’s voice reverberated over the comm. 

Everyone copied, nobody commented. 

“Let’s press forward,” he told Sam, nodding to the open gate. 

They made their way through the complex, finding empty room after empty room. The days leading up to this raid, Natasha and Maria had kept close tabs on the activity around it and nothing out of the ordinary had been reported. Shipping continued as usual, even the people movement within the building had stayed the same. No change in procedure. 

Steve and Sam found operating theaters and labs. Rooms that looked awfully lot like the cold torture chambers that had held Bucky. Chairs with similar halos, metal restraints to hold people down. Empty medicine cabinets and fridges. Empty cells, human excrement and blood stained the corners. 

There were some bodies, men and women with a wild look in their eyes. Their tunics stiff, bloody and yellow with pus. Their metal limbs pressed heavily into the floor, the scars burning red where their clothes had been clawed away. 

Steve wondered if this was how it looked on Bucky. If it weighed him down the same. 

Sam had crouched down, “Haven’t been dead for long,” he checked their faces, anguish staring back at them. 

“Guess they left them here,” Steve took another glance down the corridor, “Let’s get going, see if there’s something else they left behind.”

“Cap,” Natasha whispered in his ear when the comm sprang on, “I have eyes on Rumlow.”

“Don’t engage,” he motioned Sam up, “We’re on our way. Hawkeye, Iron Man?”

“Ten four,” Clint said. 

“Let’s get this party started,” Tony cheered. 

They made their way out of the first warehouse and followed the knocked out guards to the entrance of the office building next to it. Natasha gave them clear directions through the slim corridors, passing small rooms filled with empty filing cabinets and scuff marks on the floor. 

They knocked out a few leftover guards on the way. And they found a few researchers tied up in various closets. Angry eyes staring up at them. They left them for Maria’s team to pick up. 

“Just give me the sign, Cap,” Tony pinged, “I’ll come busting through that roof saving all your pretty asses.”

Steve could hear the humming of his thrusters outside, but he needed to focus on hurried footsteps or perhaps Natasha already in conflict. 

“On that note,” Clint spoke softly, “I’m in position, got eyes on Widow and Rumlow.”

“How’s the situation, Widow?” Steve asked, keeping his voice down, rushing through with Sam at his side.

“Looks like he’s in discussion with a scientist or doctor,” she recounted, “There’ll be little room to manoeuvre but only two exits. We need to make sure we got them covered.”

“Copy that,” Steve rushed up the stairs, “Remember, we aim to apprehend, but go for lethal if it’s starting to get too heated.”

Everyone copied. Sam and Steve reached the hallway. It had several guards stationary on the side of the fortified doors. They all had their weapons raised, ready for any contact. Expecting them around the corner at any minute. 

“Rumlow’s on the move,” Natasha said hurriedly, “He’s coming your way Cap. I’m on the scientist.”

“Lost my vision,” Clint added, “I’m moving with Widow.”

“On your mark, Captain,” Tony repeated. 

Sam didn’t say anything. He kept his gun steady at his side, finger along the trigger. He waited patiently pressed against the wall. Steve listened to the door opening at the end of the hall, the guards falling in line with Rumlow’s heavy step, metal clunking on the floor. 

“It’s always a pleasure, Captain,” Rumlow roared, his voice crashing through the corridor, “You’re here to break up our little operation. Afraid you’re a pinch on the late side for that one. But not to worry, we can still have our little scuffle.”

“Go ahead, Iron Man,” Steve huffed, keeping himself pressed into the wall besides him, “We’ll have your back.”

Tony made his dramatic entrance, crashing through the roof, blasting his laser show all around. Rumlow laughed maniacally . 

Sam cocked the nuzzle of his rifle at the commotion, asking to go in. With a sigh Steve shook his head, pulled out his earpiece and tossed it to him. Sam stared at him, clearly understanding the gesture, but neither approving or disapproving it. It felt like a disappointment nonetheless. 

It didn’t matter. Steve ran off, making his way back through the office building, heading to the last warehouse. 

The area around it was eerily silent. Even if he knew Maria was hiding out at the edge of the compound, he couldn’t see her. Or Tony’s rampage in the building in his spar with Rumlow was somehow contained. But it was mostly the severed link between his team that emphasized the stillness. No one yammering in his ear, discussing strategies or announcing strange tactics. It was just him and himself.

Steve noticed the camera’s on the warehouse and opted to sneak in a window on the second floor instead. He landed in an empty room. Marks on the floor and walls indicated age old furniture and computer consoles that had been removed. Even the carpet was stripped here, glue still sticking to his boots. 

He snuck to the door, pulling out his phone to check Tony’s app. If there were any guards on this building, they were hanging out somewhere else. The floor appeared empty. He listened for voices or footsteps and got nothing. 

The bare concrete floor and walls resonated his own footsteps up and down. No matter how quiet he tried to be. Every click of a door, every intake of breath, every heartbeat hammering in his chest. 

Of course Steve feared the worst and he felt guilty about it even crossing his mind. He kept his mind focused, singular on the prospect of finding Bucky tied in the chair, stuck in a cryotube, forced into submission by someone like Pierce or Zola. The thought of that alone turned his stomach upside down. 

He couldn’t entertain betrayal. 

It still came down to his fault, his responsibility. He shouldn’t have brought Bucky to fight this enemy blind. Unaware of exactly what they put him through. 

Steve found a stairway at the back of the hallway and made his way down. Downstairs the smell of disinfectant hit him like a brick to the nose. Breaking through it there was the scent of death. Bodies upon bodies were stacked in the rooms here. A morgue. 

There was life there now. Steve heard the low hum of voices drifting through the hallway. He couldn’t make out a word before he stepped closer. They stopped before he identified them or the language they were speaking. But he had an idea and it burrowed deep into the pit of his stomach. 

He changed his careful step to a brisk jog, keeping his feet light. He braced himself to slam down the door, his mind racing of Bucky in danger and then of Natasha’s distressed face as she told him again and again he was the Winter Soldier. Steve pulled the shield from his back before bursting through the door. 

Gunshots cracked and bullets ricochet off his shield. It nearly slammed him back to the hallway, but he pushed forward. He heard a woman shout frantically over the shots, he didn’t understand the language, but he understood the implication when his knee cracked, pain splitting through his entire body. 

He kept himself standing somehow, though his heart was breaking. It was Bucky on the other side of that rifle, eyes dead, erased of all recognition. There were no obvious signs of restraints, no chair to hold him down, no bruises on his face. This was the Winter Soldier and by all accounts he had been the Winter Soldier all along. Hydra had known they were coming. 

He jumped back to cover on the other side of the door, “Bucky! Listen to me. Bucky, you don’t have to do this. You have a choice!”

Bucky didn’t reply, with a few quick steps he closed the distance and instead of setting himself up for an ambush he smashed his metal fist through the door frame. He got hold of Steve’s shoulder strap, took hold and knocked him against the wall several times. 

Steve fumbled with his strap, got loose and stumbled to the floor, immediately lifting his shield for the coming onslaught. Bucky was relentless. Slamming and kicking at every oppurtunity, while Steve tried to defend himself. 

It was the fight on the helicarrier all over again. The gunshot wound pulsating angrily from his knee, the battering of the metal arm against the metal shield, Steve’s inclination to stop fighting. The preposterousness of it amplified by the months spent with Bucky. Bucky his friend. His comrade and brother.

Steve held the painstaking breath in his chest and pushed forward. Slamming his shield, crashing Bucky into the wall. He slipped with a kick to his broken knee, letting Bucky use the shield against him, jamming it into his face, before spinning it away. Steve saw the glint of a knife before he hit the ground and managed to roll away before it reached him. 

“Bucky,” he tried again, jumping up, despite the agony in his leg, “Bucky, stop. I am not your enemy.”

Bucky wavered, panting, his metal arm hanging like a log at his side. The kevlar fitted like his father’s coat on his ninth birthday, his cheeks hollow like he spent years in a mud pit on the front. His face showed no regret or desire to stop fighting. Just exhaustion. Again he lifted the knife, fixed his stance. 

From the corner of his eye Steve saw the woman heft a gun, waiting for an opening. Determined to take matters into her own hands. The shield laid halfway across the room, he wouldn’t reach it in time. She pulled the trigger. 

Bucky clocked him in the face, knocking him to the floor. A bullet glancing off the metal arm. The woman's voice, shouting obscenities, rang dizzyingly in his ears. His vision blurred as the fist struck again and again. 

If he didn’t start fighting back, he’d lose the Winter Soldier as well as Bucky. He’d not have it on his conscience. Steve let the metal arm ram into the floor, gave him an elbow to the jaw and another to the back of his head, trying to get the upper hand. 

The woman had found her aim again and immediately Bucky spun him back to the ground, gripping him, weighing the heavy metal arm on his throat. A gunshot rang out again.

He hadn’t heard Sam run in, hadn’t heard him call out his name, but he saw the gun in his hand, the resigned resolution on his face. Bucky was off him in a split second, going for the grated windows.

Everything happened at the same time. The woman buckled over, shot in the chest, her gun clattering on the floor. Sam turned to Bucky, kicking the shield towards Steve. An arrow knocking Bucky back into the room. Natasha appeared out of thin air above him, her stingers delving deep into his chest. 

Steve heard his agonizing scream before everything fell silent. 

“Steve,” Sam spoke softly, rushing up to him, helping him up. 

His beating heart stuck in his throat, his body resisting the pull upwards. He watched Natasha, how she loomed over Bucky, never taking her eyes off him as she contacted Maria. 

Clint appeared in the window, perched on the sill. His bow dangling loosely in his hand. 

“Rumlow got away,” Sam told him, handing him back his earpiece, “Tony is stuck in a wall somewhere.”

Steve pulled his hand from his heart, clenched his teeth together, “Let’s clean this up.”


	7. Chapter 7

He was the spy no longer. 

The moment he walked away, he knew his days were numbered and the pretense would fail. They hadn’t questioned or remarked upon his disappearance over the comm. Taken it as a given. 

To hold any sort of grip on the situation, he tried to deal with his handler Huang as fast as possible. Recounting a summary of his reports, the status of the mission so far, positions of the Avengers. 

She listened intently, repeating several points to the ground team and Rumlow. Then she made him sit on the table, giving him a physical examination, noting on his weight and muscle loss. 

When he told her about his inability to eat, she got upset. Riled up in a rant she specified how important calorie intake was and forced a tube down his throat. Taking time with her special concoction. 

She never asked him about it and he couldn’t tell her about the other issues. How Romanoff was still on to him, that they would be keeping tabs on him. How his hands were shaking and the vertigo threatened with every turn of his head. With that it occurred to him she didn’t have any experience as a handler, but it wasn’t a thought he was allowed to have, so he dismissed it. 

Huang talked to him about the mission. It had taken them a long time to crack the original creation of his metal arm, but they were onto something. They had been preparing prosthetics for him, new and improved. It wouldn’t just be the arm this time. The weak soldiers they fought were all experiments, to be discarded. 

It hadn’t taken long for Rogers to find them, which was even sooner than he had anticipated. She told him to stop him, to kill him. 

She didn’t see the value in keeping him alive. 

When Romanoff’s electricity surged through him and the darkness swallowed him whole, there was a sense of peace. Just a brief moment of resignation, a surrender to the fall. But the ground had come too soon and the smack in the face woke him up. 

When he opened his eyes he was on an operating table. The surgical team jumped, backing away slowly, ordering someone to subdue him again. They didn’t seem to understand that he knew better than to get up during surgery. 

He laid perfectly still as they upped the narcotics through one arm and continued dismantling the other. Throughout the operation he woke up several more times, but he didn’t bother opening his eyes, letting the world know he was present. It was always better to let them get on with it. 

They didn’t bring him back to the small interrogation room, with the chains on the floor. Instead, the little cell appeared something more permanent. A large fortified window with thick horizontal bars. A cot on one side, no sheets. A toilet fixed inside the other wall. 

With the movements of his eyes jumping across the room, the vertigo swelled, dropping him from side to side. He pressed himself firmer into the mattress, pushing his fingers through the plastic into the synthetic foam. 

If he broke it they would remove it. It took all his concentration to pull his fingers back. 

He breathed, in and out, focused on finding a speck on the ceiling. There was only the target and the weapon. 

He was not the soldier either. 

At the height of his game he would’ve been able to shoot Rogers’s head from atop the shield, instead he aimed at his knees. Instead of pulling him through the wall, he would’ve shot him through the concrete. Instead of blocking Huang’s bullet, he would’ve let him get killed. 

His body was sluggish and it failed to respond. There was no strength to his punches, no grace in his movement. Rogers had been able to see every feeble attempt, ready to deflect and dodge. 

At the height of his performance a single arrow would not have been able to strike him backwards, leaving room for Romanoff to incapacitate him. 

Immediately he dismissed the thought. It was over now. They had captured him, they knew who he was, he had failed his mission.

He was not the ghost any longer. 

They had talked about publishing his identity. Letting the world believe Bucky Barnes was still alive. Now it would be the Winter Soldier’s face that marked the media. The devil responsible for the destruction in DC. The assassin of dozens of prominent public figures. The enemy that nearly defeated Captain America. 

His face would be recognized by the whole world. Hydra would have no use for him, even if he could get out. And he couldn’t. He didn’t need a meticulous inspection of the cell to know it was good enough to keep him here. The point was not to get caught in the first place. 

And he got caught. 

He let the nausea crash through him. Breathing through waves and waves as the world tilted on its axis. He would not move unless instructed. He would not puke out the valuable nutrition. 

They hadn’t killed him yet, so he would hold on as long as he could. He would wait patiently until they presented him with a new mission, a new target. 

Until then he was the remnant. 

⁂

Hill did not visit him in his cell. Though there were cameras and recording equipment, they did not ask him any questions. 

He was presented with food, pushed through a slot in the wall, the tray bolted fast, no utensils. Porridge, water and vitamins. He ate, he drank, he threw up once in a while. They did not come in to beat him for it. 

There were drugs in it, he was sure. Something that kept his mind foggy and subdued, his remaining limbs heavy, the imagination of his arm lingering in the background of his consciousness. When he got up, he tilted to the side, the whole room spinning with him. When he sat down, the view toppled forward or pulled him backwards into the mattress. 

Most of the time he laid on his back, either staring up to the ceiling or keeping his eyes closed. 

The lights stayed on, or the drugs knocked him out long enough for him to wake up with the lights on again. He couldn’t tell. There were no sounds coming out of the room, no water in the pipes, no humming of electricity, no breathing of people. Just his heartbeat, throbbing in line with the walls, always closing in on him. 

He was very good at waiting. 

The feeding schedule was the only holdfast he had to track any passage of time. A cornerstone to build his day around. When he noticed severe differences in between feeding times, it became problematic. 

Hydra had used this as a technique before and it definitely served its purpose. For Shield to deploy this method meant that they wanted something and were ready to break him for it. They could try. Hydra prepared him for much worse than missing the concept of time. 

Time passed, he knew that. He kept eating, puking his guts out when the vertigo became too much or the food was disagreeable. Kept steady count of meals passed. For each two, one day, he decided. It was arbitrary and on the generous side of things. 

He counted twenty-seven days before he heard footsteps, a hush of a voice coming from somewhere behind the glass. With his ears perked he listened, trying to make out the sound of other people. He didn’t sit up, quelled the urge to press his face against the glass. He waited, they’d come to him. 

They didn’t. 

He waited. 

His right hand cramped and trembled against his tunic or the plastic mattress. Some days holding himself up right made his arm spasm out. Gripping it around the iron of his bed was cooling, grounding. Slightly pulsating, loosening and tightening his grip, just to regain control. 

Occasionally he caught his mind drifting. To Rogers, to the fight, running they move set over in his head. Noting down things to improve. He counted those slip ups too, forcing his mind away. Lying on his left side provided enough focus to redirect the thoughts and condition himself. 

The chair made it easier. Relaying unwanted pathways, disconnecting intrusive emotive responses. Ever since Hydra had started the procedure, his efficiency had improved with nearly a hundred percent. Doing it himself was not really ideal. What Hydra perfected, he had not yet molded into a precise science. 

But in the end it was simple association. If A occured, introduce B to disincentivize. Repeated until A no longer occurred. So whenever his thoughts wandered he’d roll onto his side, first letting the nausea settle and then press into the mattress, putting weight onto his empty socket and the line of scarring. 

The action would look harmless from the outside. They would not allow him to compromise their asset, no matter how useless he was in this state. The submissive gesture of turning his back to the only observable entrance was an added bonus.

Like an empty shell he waited. Counting his days, counting his intrusive thoughts, counting his mysterious nose bleeds soaked up in his tunic. He would be the empty vessel they needed him to be. If Hydra took him back, he’d be ready to be remade. If Shield wanted to utilize him, he’d be ready to be formed. 

He waited. 

And waited. 

And he waited. 

Until somebody came. 

⁂

Footsteps echoed, a rustle of clothes, the beating of someone else’s heart. 

The remnant felt his heart quicken, his right hand seized up, fingers spasming in claw like positions until he forced it around the metal bar. The person stopped before the glass. He could practically feel them there. A presence, eyes watching him, a judgment cast. 

“Hey, man, I wanted to come check up on you. How’ve you been?”

The voice came loud over the speaker, hardly reaching through the glass. He hadn’t expected Wilson of all people to come and interrogate him. He kept quiet, laying flat on the bed. He would not respond to idle chit chat. They wouldn’t want him to, that was not for him. 

“It’s been a while and it took me a lot of hammering and nagging to get in here.” 

The remnant wondered if he was supposed to listen to this information. It didn’t seem relevant or important. But Wilson’s voice was the only thing he had heard in months. Anything that came out of his mouth was something to hang on to and cherish. 

“Can you sit up or would you like to stay down?”

The remnant pondered the question. It wasn’t an order, really. And if it was should he wasn’t sure if he should follow it. This was Shield, not Hydra. He would not comply, he would resist, he would wait. But Shield had him. He was theirs. He should adhere to their wishes. 

“That’s fine,” Wilson said eventually, “I did notice some blood on your shirt though, do you need medical attention?”

If he did, they would’ve intervened. If they hadn’t hung him, or put him in front of a firing squad, it meant there was something they wanted. That Wilson wanted. The nosebleeds were not frequent enough to warrant any concerns. The facility appeared sufficiently high tech to contain wireless scanners. Like at Stark’s building. If anything went below acceptable parameters, they’d interfere.

“Do they let you out of here once in a while?” Wilson paused, letting the question trail in the air, “No? I guess they don’t. And appear to be listening in, so better not rattling off those state secrets yet.”

Wilson laughed but stopped quickly. 

“No sense of humor either.”

The remnant held his breath, then let it out. The whole experience threw him off and was the most grounded thing to come his way. 

“You must be wondering why I came to visit,” Wilson shuffled his shoes, “I work at the VA center as I mentioned, and I’ll be up front here, during your stay with us I got the impression you were dealing with some things. Internally.”

The remnant felt his fingers twitch. In both hands, flesh and ghost. He pressed his eyes to the ceiling, imagining a fleck in the bland gray metal. He was good at waiting. Time would pass. 

He became aware of how silent it was, then. The hatch in the wall with his tray of food already open, presenting the lukewarm porridge. Wilson was gone. A weight in his head had taken his place. He didn’t remember Wilson leaving, hadn’t thought he would leave where he left it either. 

When his heartbeat rose, he forced himself up. Fighting the sway and churn of the room. He breathed, deeply, through the nose. No sound. No movement except the rise of his chest. They left him food. He ate it. 

Then he followed his routine. Sit on the bed for a hundred counts. Walk around the room for a hundred circles. Even if he fell down, even if the vertigo made him crash into the glass or the food made its way up again. He finished his hundred circles. Then a hundred sit ups and a ten minute plank. 

After that he would use the toilet and sit back down again for a hundred counts. Only after that he would lay down. Sleep for what he expected was twenty minutes and wait for the new delivery of food. 

He counted 5 days between Wilson’s previous visit and the next. This time he caught him right in the middle of doing his circles. But when he spoke up he was already sitting on the bed. 

“So that was the end for Tony, so to speak,” Wilson said, squatted down in front of the glass, “He’s fine though, already working on improvements on the suit.”

The remnant searched the ground in front of him, the cracked blood underneath his fingernails, the sudden shakes in his right arm. There was a tight spot behind his eye, an uneasiness that didn’t let up.

He could not look at Wilson. He could not acknowledge. There were no orders. There was no mission except wait. 

“He was very impressed that you were able to relay the weak points to Hydra the way you did,” Wilson continued and then leaned forward, “Are you with me again?”

The question could not be answered. The information was not relevant. Unless he missed information. Unless he hadn’t been paying attention and he missed critical mission details. 

He clamped his hand around the metal bar in another attempt to restrain the convulsion. Get his heartbeat under control, relax his breathing. 

“Take it easy now,” Wilson set his hand on the glass, showing it was several inches thick, “You’re breathing, that’s good. Did they teach you that or is that something you learned yourself?”

The remnant searched for the answer in his head and then stopped. Wilson was here to ask about Hydra. He was here to interrogate him. He needed focus. Whatever tactic he was following, it would be useless. He would not deteriorate. 

“Tony told me about that too,” Wilson got tired of waiting for an answer, “The dissociation. I expected it, but he said you were in his lab for a long stretch of time. Just. Sitting there, letting him work on your arm. The metal one.”

Stark mentioned this. To Bucky Barnes. The loss of time. Blackout drunk, Stark had compared it to. Not remembering how he got from one place to the next. 

In turn Bucky Barnes had told Rogers about it. 

The thought toppled his stomach and sent him swimming. He couldn’t let it show. Clench his teeth, clench his hand, clench the muscles in his shoulders. 

“It’s tough,” Wilson told him, his voice too loud over the speakers, “I’m not a specialist. But I’ve met some people who have experienced it.”

The remnant held his pose. Like a stone on the cliffside. A statue on a church. An evergreen tree on a slope. He was not there. He would not be heard or seen. He would not hear or see. Just him and the target. A pure focus. 

But he did not become the ghost. 

His arm did not stop shaking. The room did not stop spinning. The pressure behind his eye or in his stomach did not ease up. 

“It can be a defence mechanism. A mental process that disconnects oneself from the situation. Or from themselves. In some cases this may cause amnesia or even the creation of a new identity.”

This was the torture, the remnant knew now. Shield would not beat him, drown him or electrocute him. They would whisper words in his ears, twisted lies and deceit. They would let Wilson speak to him, like he had spoken to Bucky Barnes and turn that around, drilling their way inside. 

He would not let them. He could not. He held fast.


	8. Chapter 8

Another strike sent the boxing bag flying. The third one today. Tony had started making jokes about it. But Steve couldn’t laugh. He was destroying equipment, out of frustration or guilt or shame. None of them were acceptable behaviour. 

His knee had healed. Not without complications. Steve had continued to stand on his fractured knee which had pushed pieces of bone into the wound, disrupting the healing process. It had taken several excruciating surgeries before they picked out all the pieces, fixed up the gunshot wound and replaced the kneecap with a replica. 

Tony also made jokes about that. Making a plate out of his special alloy, patterning it with the shield logo, weaponizing it with a laser or a small pellet gun. Steve hadn’t been able to laugh about that either. It would take a few more weeks before he got his full mobility back. 

He refocused on the gym, watching the boxing bag a few feet away, lying on the shining wooden floor. It was snowing outside, thick flocks of white battered against the windows, dressing all of New York in white. Soon it would be dark. 

The whole tower was dressed as a giant Christmas tree. Though they called it a holiday tree now. Steve had spotted various other religious ornaments around the bottom floors of the tower. It was a feeble attempt of being inclusive, though at the moment he’d rather everything was taken down. 

His own Chrismasses had been about attending mass and getting a shirt made from a flour bag. After his mother died, it meant playing cards and putting a few more potatoes on the stove. Bucky had always been able to pull some kind of chicken from somewhere. Steve had never figured out if he stole it or saved up some money somewhere. 

He had looked forward to celebrating Christmas with Bucky this year. Show him the indulgent extravagance, buy gifts, fill stockings chock full of chocolate, oranges and candy canes. They’d have a feast with roasted ham, chicken, mash and cranberry sauce. Perhaps Bucky would be able to eat some, otherwise they’d toss it all in his blender. 

He had looked forward to spending Christmas with the whole gang. Tony would hold a party, Barton would come up with the dumbest gift giving system even if they were all derivative of the good old yankee swap. Sam would perhaps invite him to his mother’s house for dinner, they’d have the kids over, more extended family. 

Natasha might have even joined in. Play dress up in unsexy santa outfits and host a variety of parlor games. Instead she had left for missions. Allegedly. Maria hadn’t elaborated. He hadn’t asked. 

Steve sat down on the bag and wiped the drying sweat away. After a moment the automatic lights in the gym went out. He raised a hand and waved, but the motion sensors didn’t react. 

“Jarvis?” Steve sighed, dropping his face in the towel. 

“I’ve turned the lights back on for you, sir,” Jarvis said. 

Steve watched his reflection in the glass and perhaps he was better off in the dark. 

“Should I have seen it coming?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Jarvis replied, “Sergeant Barnes had requested to disable me nearly immediately after he moved into the apartment.”

Steve groaned, got up and kicked the bag across the room. 

“Shall I order another pair of bags, sir?” Jarvis asked. 

There was no judgement in his robotic voice, but Steve could imagine it being there anyway. 

“Please do.” 

He made his way to the showers, slightly limping from his injured leg. He let the warmth rush over him for a long time. Reluctant to go back to the empty apartment. It wasn’t cold, but it certainly felt that way. 

The fridge was full of food, but he wasn’t hungry. As was the tv full of entertainment, but there was nothing he would like to be entertained by. There was a book lying on the couch that Bucky had been reading, even if lately he had spent more time on his laptop. They confiscated that. 

Steve put the novel back in his book case, not even looking at the title. Then he wandered around the apartment for a while. Again. There was a restlessness in his body that didn’t want to mend. 

Usually when something went wrong, he’d take the first opportunity to fix it. Whatever it was, he’d take action and do something about it. When something was unfixable, he stopped giving it the time of day. There were enough issues in the world.

This was an unfixable issue that he couldn’t put down.

He was tempted to call Sam again. Sam who tried to make him talk about it, but didn’t. But hanging out helped. Like they shared the burden. 

Out of nowhere, Sam had suggested visiting Bucky. Out in that prison just off the coast in the Atlantic. Steve wanted to mention how humorous it was. Him being frozen for seventy years in the same ocean. Now Bucky incarcerated for the rest of his life. Instead he had shaken his head and walked away. 

Sam went alone, came back and they hadn’t talked about it. He didn’t ask. 

He passed by his bedroom. Bucky’s bedroom. They had trashed it, tore up the mattress, deconstructed the cupboard, opened up the walls. But the very next day Pepper had made sure the whole room looked like nothing ever happened, no one ever lived there. Steve didn’t know what was worse. Both made him angry. 

He left the room, door ajar, reminding him every single day that Bucky had been just a ghost from the past. A figment born out of nostalgia and homesickness. The room now was just an empty shell.

⁂

“I didn’t take you to my mother’s house just so you could mope around all day,” Sam held the car door for him. 

“That I wasn’t running around like a chicken,” Steve kicked the snow off his shoes, completely drenched from even the short walk to the car, “Doesn’t mean I was moping.”

“I, my man, made a perfect imitation of a turkey,” Sam got in the driver’s seat, “You can’t deny my excellence.”

“Only because you got max points that round,” Steve sat himself down in the passenger seat, “You and your sister are an unbeatable team.”

“No more honest truth has ever been spoken.”

He gave Sam a moment to put his stuff in the back seat of the car, turn on the heat, select a radio channel. 

“Hey, let me drive,” Steve turned in his seat. 

Sam immediately looked at him like he was crazy, “Excuse me?”

“Let me drive,” Steve frowned at the reaction, “You and Nat always make such a big deal out of my driving skills. Then let me drive.”

“This snow is a foot deep,” Sam pointed out, deadpan. 

“Yes,” Steve didn’t want this to become a childish thing, but wanted to set his foot down nonetheless. 

On the pedal preferable.

Sam immediately lifted his hands, brows nearing his hairline, “Alright, alright. You drive. You don’t have to tell me twice.”

They switch car seats. But the fight in Steve still hadn’t left. It tingled underneath his skin, burned like coal in his stomach. He had it under control. 

He sat down, strapped in, adjusted his seat and mirror twice. Gave Sam another glare who was waiting with an ever patient look on his face. Then he started and stalled the car. 

“It always does that,” Sam said, trying to be nonchalant, “Do it more slowly.”

“I know.”

With utmost control, he slipped his feet off the clutch, setting the car in motion. Only to get cut off when he tried to turn into the street. The car stuttered, but didn’t shut down this time. 

“Fucking hell,” Steve breathed, slapping against the steering wheel, clutching it tight.

“Actually,” Sam started, unbuckling before Steve could drive off, “I think I forgot something. Just a sec.”

Before Steve could say anything else, Sam was gone, leaving him in the hot car. He took a deep breath and turned off the engine again, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. 

He needed to go back to the tower. Beat another bag, take another run, get rid of this energy. Perhaps Tony had some crazy experiment he could help out with. 

The door opened and he pushed himself away, eyeing the large tupperware box Sam put on the backseat.

“It’s pie,” Sam started and placed a hand on his shoulder, “You look like you need twenty of them Steve, I’m not gonna lie.”

“Sure,” Steve shrugged it off, turned the key, forced the car into the road. 

“I’m saying,” Sam continued, clicking in his seatbelt before being pushed into his seat, “You’re not very good at hiding it. How much it’s breaking you up. So if you want to talk about it-”

“It’s fine, Sam. I don’t.” Steve said before he had the chance to say anything else. 

“Got it,” Sam turned up the radio, letting the murmur of voices fill the empty space. 

There weren’t a lot of people on the road. The massive amount of snow and ice held people warm and cosy in their homes. So did the dark. Steve disliked the snow in the dark. Street lighting cast everything in a strange sepia color. Like he was looking at the world through old photographs. 

Or the world before the serum fixed his eyesight. 

That was not something he wanted to dwell on. He pressed hard on the horn as he sped past a slow moving car, cursing under his breath, swerving back into the right lane. 

It was still a long way to New York. 

“Natasha told me she might make an appearance at Tony’s Christmas party,” Sam said after a while, playing with his phone. 

“She’s back in the states,” Steve remarked, “I haven’t heard from her.”

“I know,” Sam laid his phone face down on his knee, “She needed the space.”

“That’s what she said,” Steve tapped along with the music. 

But stopped the moment it reminded him that Bucky had done that, continuously. 

“That’s what she said and she meant it,” Sam turned the music down, “There is nothing wrong with knowing yourself and what you need. She does.”

“I’m just saying,” Steve glanced over, annoyed that Sam was trying to have a conversation. 

“No, you’re not just saying,” Sam sighed, “You insinuating the reason she left was because of you. Because you think she blames you for what happened.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about this,” Steve stepped on the brakes, inattentive to the slippery streets. 

“Yep, you’re right,” Sam shrugged, “We weren’t, until you started making passive aggressive remarks about Natasha. Listen, Steve, we were all shook up, but we need to be there for each other and sort our shit out. You’re bottling and what did my momma say about bottling?”

“It’s only good for ships and beer?” Steve couldn’t summon a smile on his face. 

Of course Sam was right. He had always been right. Like Natasha had been. Which was the reason why he didn’t want to confront her. She had been right and he hadn’t believed her, hadn’t wanted to believe her.

“If you keep it inside when you’re shaken it’ll all come spewing out,” Sam waved his hand around like his mother, “That’s what my momma says. And we all know she’s a pretty smart lady.”

“That she is,” Steve tapped the indicator and took the next exit, “And who’ve you been laying it out to then.”

Because he hadn’t been talking to Steve. 

“My therapist,” Sam sounded like he had been repeating the word for months, “Pepper Pots approved. So has Tony. So has Natasha.”

“You can’t make me believe Natasha goes to a head doctor,” Steve halted the car for the stop light, waiting for absolutely no one. 

“You think that after what she has been through, what she crawled away from, she didn’t need a little help getting back on her feet?” Sam shook his head, twisting the phone in his hand, “Dude, people get back from any deployment completely fucked up. They don’t need to have to fight aliens to have some issues.”

“Or be betrayed by your best friend.”

“Or be betrayed by a world class super spy that has managed to remain completely off the radar for the past hundred years. Who also used to be your best friend,” Sam leaned back and then turned around to grab something from the back seat, “This shit needs some pie, man.”

“What? Right now?” Steve missed when the light turned green and got honked at. 

He honked right back. 

“That’s right,” Sam popped off the lid, “I’m gonna treat myself with a nice piece of my momma’s homemade pie. Even though I’m stuffed to the brim.”

Steve pressed his teeth together as he made the turn, crawling down the empty street for a few blocks. 

“You think Natasha will take my phone call?” he asked, timidly. 

“Of course she’ll take your phone call, doofus,” Sam spew crumbs all over his upholstery, “Now get us home and there might be some pie left.”

“Roger that,” Steve immediately stepped on it, letting the wheels slip out in the slush of the snow. 

⁂

Tony’s Winter Holidays party was an extravagance. There was a whole floor in the tower dedicated to it, completely decorated in lavish glittering silver and gold tinsel, baubles and elaborate paper stars. 

The amount of staff on the floor was tripled by the amount of guests. Every single one of them in flashy couture evening dresses and sharp tailored suits. 

A live chamber band had been playing nonstop since Steve had walked in, but not even a beat of sweat was visible on their brows. The waiting staff, dressed in white with matching tiaras, greeted him with brilliant smiles. Offering champagne mixed with a hint of lingonberries, silver pearls drifting in the bottom of the glass. He wasn’t sure if that was to drink as well. 

Several people walked up to him, all smiles, tugging at his arm for best wishes and toasts. They all seemed to recognize him, but he couldn’t return the favor. Though some seemed familiar, perhaps from television or movies. Perhaps from some position in power. 

Natasha found him first, seamlessly stringing an arm through his and walking him to the dance floor. She looked pristine. Her hair done up, a dress cut low, expensive jewels draped around her neck. 

Somehow he was glad that Tony had pushed to get him a newly tailored suit, simple black, shiny shoes, a brooch in his breast pocket resembling baby’s breath. It made him look more sophisticated, a suit to play a role in.

“It’s been a while, how’ve you been,” she laid his hand on her waist and shoulder. 

“We talked on the phone only days ago, Nat,” he smiled at her, “You know.”

“Yes, but what more could a girl wish for, but a man to tell her how he really feels about her,” she made a dramatic twirl. 

“Is that how you want to play it,” he chuckled, twirling her back in his arms. 

“Isn’t that how one plays the game,” she paused, flashing her eyelashes, “Of love.”

Steve laughed holding her tight, bumping into another couple dancing and getting some annoyed looks. 

It didn’t matter. It was good to hug her back. The smell of her hair, the comfort of her hands on his back, the shared weight on their shoulders. 

“I’m sorry, Nat,” he said, knowing it should get easier every time he said it, “You were right and I should’ve listened.”

“You should’ve,” she nodded, getting back in step with the tune, “But I’ve accepted this apology twenty times now. Buy a girl some flowers. Or a new flip knife.”

“I’ll get you a new flip knife,” Steve swaying softly with her, “I’ve seen a diamond studded garrott on sale.”

“On sale, Steve!” she gasped, “Am I not worth anything to you?”

“More than you know,” he said, wanting to hug her again, “How was… wherever you were?”

“It had weather and oh, the traffic,” Natasha smirked, “It went, as it does. Got some of it out of my system. I’ll tell you that I’ll be joining Maria to the Raft soon.”

“Oh,” Steve knew what that implied. 

“Sam has been going,” she studied his face, “But you haven’t talked to him about it.”

“Yeah, I know, I know,” Steve didn’t want to start that here and now, “It’s on my to-do list.”

“Your to-do list is a mile long.”

“I put it on the top of my to-do list,” Steve scrambled, but could tell she saw through the lie. 

“I’m not going to tell you to just let it go, I know you won’t,” Natasha pulled him from the dancefloor towards someone serving drinks, “But it would do you good to start working on putting this behind you.”

Steve dropped her hand as she downed one drink and grabbed another. 

“That’s all I’m going to say on the matter,” she slapped his chest, “Tonight, we’re going to have so much fun.”

Reminding her that he could not get drunk, didn’t deter Natasha. She kept handing him glass after glass of Tony’s very expensive liquor collection. The buffet was tables long, set with giant decorated plates of fanciful food. Natasha made him try anything she turned her nose up for. And he was perplexed at the variety of flavours, textures and combination freely available to try. 

The food from his childhood had been dry and bland. They never had money for anything and after his mother died, they had even less. Every week the same ingredients thrown together in the same fashion. Cooked fish, cooked chicken, cooked potatoes, cooked cabbage.

They spent more time on the dance floor, when the mood became a bit less stiff all around. The band was playing upbeat holiday tunes compared to the slow, uptight waltzes of before. Clint had joined, showing off wacky dance moves that managed to make Natasha laugh. A genuine, with tears in her eyes, shatter of laughter. 

At midnight they wondered at the light and fireworks show Tony had prepared on the balcony. They huddled close together, draped in a large shawl, staring up at the night sky. Snow drifted gently down, disappearing before it reached the warmth of the crowd. Several versions of the Iron Man suits came roaring past, paths of sparks trailing like comets. Glittering explosions overhead, in all the colors of the rainbow. 

Tony had joined them in the lounge room away from where the party was dying down, people leaving, staff trying to clean up the mess. He was snoring on the couch, tie loose, suit rumpled. There was glitter in his hair. 

Pepper was draped over him, her hair and dress still immaculate, but exhausted. The whole evening she had played the ever pleasant host. Entertaining guests, settling disputes, performing damage control where the giant ice sculpture had melted all over the floor. 

Clint was shuffling a pack of cards, flipping them between his fingers. Natasha leaned against him on the couch, a glass dangling dangerously in her hand. Either asleep or on the brink. Her lashes fluttered. 

The lights were dim, mostly the speckles of the New York skyline providing light. From behind a door a lone violinist decided to play until the bitter end. 

Steve motioned for him to deal another hand. 

Clint nodded and flicked the cards over the table, laying down three in the middle. Open faced. 

Double jacks. Heart and spades. Steve put his cards down. The table showed two kings and a queen. He leaned back in his chair. 

“I believe the game is rigged,” Steve picked up his glass of whiskey, hardly feeling it burn down his throat.

“Yeah it be like that sometimes,” Clint swiped the cards back and shuffled again, “You’re dealt a shitty hand, just as you weighed in your life savings. And you lose it all. Bad luck.”

Steve scoffed and picked up the new deal of cards, “It wasn’t luck.” 

“Maybe not,” Clint shrugged, glancing if Natasha was still sleeping, “But it’s passed.”

Pick yourself up, dust yourself off, stand in line, be a soldier. Steve had heard it all before. And what was he, if not a soldier. 

“I’m not sure my body has caught up with that,” Steve gripped his fingers into fists, “I’ve never been this on edge before. Not in a fight, not in the war. It’s still waiting to finish the fight.”

Clint pushed forward some pistachio shells they used as barter, “I get that. I do. What I do at those times, is start a fight somewhere, do some good. Even if it’s small and stupid. I start a fight and finish it.”

“And does that help?” Steve had several broken punching bags to show for how much he tried that tactic. 

“God no,” Clint huffed, cracking another nut open, “No, I don’t recommend it. Gets me in more trouble than is worth.”

A glass crashed, a shadow passed, laughter sounded from the open doorway. No one was looking for them. They were safe. Both Clint and Steve shared a glance, understanding the tension coiling and letting it go. 

“The thing is,” Clint tossed the nut into his mouth, “Helping other people is like a drug somehow. You get the satisfaction of saving someone, thinking you did good, right, made a real difference. But it’s a selfish thing, really. You only want the act to save you.”

“Didn’t think you’d be the guy who needed saving,” Steve pushed his own chips forward, raising the bet, “Waiting for a knight in shining armor.” 

“Or a woman in a catsuit,” Clint flipped his cards, showing his queen of hearts, “Bam. How poetic is that.”

Steve flicked his cards on the table, a three and a seven, just an empty bluff.

“No, but my point is though,” Clint sipped his beer, “My point is, knights and queens and all kinds of people can come and try and save you. But it doesn’t matter, right, it doesn’t matter if you don’t want to be saved.”

Natasha laid still on his lap, breathing softly and slowly, but her eyes were open. Seeing every emotion, every expression that passed through him. Everything that he didn’t understand, or want to unravel, he knew. In all the little details.

“You’re probably right,” Steve sagged back in the couch, gulping the whiskey away, “You’re right.”

⁂

In the attempt of all the advice, Steve had set up a drawing desk and set it out with all the supplies he dared ask Jarvis for. The light was good, the morning filled the entire apartment. He put on some soft background music. Nothing from the past, but Jarvis said it was old enough to be considered classics. A cup of coffee steaming next to him, brought up from the nice cafe in the lower layers of the tower. 

A white sheet in front of him, a pencil in his hands. 

The skyline before him would serve as a simple start. The white gray clouds presented an unbothersome backdrop. Most of the snow had wilted, though some hooks and crannies were still filled. Simple straight lines, blocks and the possibility to get lost in tiny little details. 

He had drawn New York a lot in his youth, but not from this angle, not the skyline, looking down at the world. It had a completely different feel. 

He lifted his pencil several times, before dropping his hand back in his lap, the pencil skittering over the floor. 

With a sigh he took a sip of his coffee, watching yellow taxi cars drift in streams between the buildings. A familiar sight. Back in the day he had expected the millennial year would have them flying in the sky. 

He set his cup down, reaching for his pencil. 

After the first line, he dropped the pencil back on the board, reaching for the eraser. The line too thick, the paper struggling to get rid of its mark. After scrubbing for a full minute there was a lot of eraser dust and an irreparable indent on the paper. He lifted the sheet to rip it off, start anew. 

And then he let it drop. 

Instead he scratched more lines into the paper, pressing deep with his pencil. The black graphite dusting all over the place, graying up his hand and arm. The paper ripped, the tip broke, but his breath was steady.

Then when the sharp angles and blocky shape of the Winter Soldier were sufficiently forced onto the paper he grabbed the eraser and rubbed everything away. It left him with a crumpled and fuzzy piece of paper, scored with the lines and blotted with gray that wouldn’t go away. 

He stared at it. The fading image. The memory of their fight on the helicarrier. The fight in the warehouse. Bucky laying on that slab in Azzano. Bucky sitting alone in a cell on the raft. 

He ripped the paper away, dropped it to the floor and flicked his pencil in his hand. After another sip of his now cold coffee he started outlining the city scape before him. Gentle lines, vague impressions of buildings on the horizon. Blocks and shadows, windows and antennas. All against a white gray background. 

The more he bit down on his lip to stop it from trembling, the more his hand cramped around his pencil and his heart beat like a knife in his chest. This wasn’t his home. This drawing was no reflection of himself. The act of creation did not feel liberating or healing. 

It hurt. 

And unlike the strain in his muscles and the burn in his lungs when he worked out, this wasn’t a good hurt. 

He felt disgusting. 

Bucky, by cruel and wicked fate, was alive here in the twenty-first century. He was alive, had looked him in the eye and deceived him. Willfully pretended to be his friend and lied, sold him out, and betrayed him. 

In a rush he flung everything off the table. Pens, pencils and his cold cup of coffee crashed to the floor. He swiped the fluttering paper off the floor, crumpling and ripping it before hurling it through the room. 

He heaved, staring at how limited the damage was, how useless it was. He pressed his eyes closed, curled his fingers into a fist and let out a breath. 

He dragged his hand through his hair and started to clean up his mess. Storing away the new and broken art supplies. 

⁂

“Usually I won’t be asking about these things,” Sam set his coffee down on the wobbly little table. 

They were outside, the world around them still freezing cold. The Christmas decorations had disappeared and New Years had come and gone. They were setting up for the Chinese New Year in some places and decorating everything in red and pink for Valentines. 

“Yeah, I went,” Steve made himself not look away from Sam, “I went, I met with the woman. Kiana. We talked.”

“And,” Sam tried to get more out of him, almost sounding eager, “You’ll go again?”

“I think so,” Steve felt his gaze drop, “I mean, you can’t really tell after just one visit, right.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s right,” Sam smiled big, showing all his teeth, “That’s good, man. I want to say I’m proud of you, but I think you can be proud of yourself instead.”

“I don’t know, Sam,” Steve stuffed a large piece of banana bread in his mouth, “That sounds awfully corny to me. Real strong men like myself don’t need that shit.”

“You be careful now,” Sam leaned in close, nearly tipping the tiny table, “Real strong men don’t get to eat banana bread with their mocha latte frappuccino whip.”

“It’s just a mocha latte, don’t be so dramatic,” Steve munched on his bread, “With a splash of caramel.”

“With a splash of caramel,” Sam said case in point.

“I thought your therapist ass wasn’t allowed to shame me for my guilty pleasures.”

“Fuck, which areas of the internet have you been visiting, Steve,” Sam rolled his eyes, taking his own americano, “I am so allowed to do that with man babies.”

“Man babies who go to therapy,” Steve licked his fingers. 

“Exactly,” Sam smirked, “Come on, we’re going to be late.”

Steve wiped the table, tossing his napkin in the bin. They started their trek back to the tower. The metal and glass construction stuck out like an ugly knife against the sky. 

“A new mission, huh,” Steve started, “We finally got a lead on Rumlow?”

“He’s been completely off the grid for months now,” Sam shrugged, pausing to give a homeless man his gloves and a card for a local shelter, “If they found something new about him now, he must want to be found.”

“Or,” Steve didn’t want to spoil his drink, “Or they got their info somewhere else.”

“Do you really want to know?” Sam didn’t look at him, as if he didn’t need to see the look on Steve’s face to know the answer. 

Steve told him ‘no’ anyway. 

“So we’ll see. If they are being evasive about it, you’ll know anyway,” Sam said lightly, “And I think it’s our own intel.”

They worked their way through the crowd, waiting for a whole school bus of children to pass who were visiting the building as some excursion. Steve felt the moment he was made. A soft click of a camera, the whisper in someone’s ear. 

Within seconds that the first person asked for his identity, the whole room was flocking him. He smiled, made some heroic poses for the cameras. Touching people briefly on the shoulder, familiar but mannerly. Careful not to overstep any boundaries. 

Sometimes he wondered if they knew how fabricated these meetings were. How everything was dictated by hours of PR training and practise. But people never seemed to care, they just wanted to be able to say they met with Captain America. A highlight of their week and then move on to the next celebrity. 

Sam watched the affair with amusement as he held the elevator door as Steve jogged to him. 

“What has the world come to,” Sam shook his head with a cocky grin, “That we celebrate modern crime fighters as if they’re pop stars.”

“You feel like you’re missing out?” Steve poked him in the ribs with his elbow, “It’s a lot less glamorous than you think.”

“Oh I know,” Sam shot quickly, “Have you seen Tony? You think he started drinking just because of his childhood traumas?”

“The rockstar life didn’t really help with that, huh,” Steve admitted. 

“Not one bit,” Sam shrugged, “You knew his father, right, back in the war?”

“Howard, yeah, he was crazy, but a good man. He had real vision,” Steve thought back on the science fair the day that he enlisted, “A real visionary, dedicated to his work.”

“Maybe not the best father figure to have,” Sam pondered as the elevator came to a stop. 

Maria and Natasha stood near the screen in the meeting room, discussing something amongst themselves. Tony sat with his feet up on the table, tapping away on his phone. 

“You’re late,” Maria said immediately, crossing her arms. 

“Good to see you too, Maria,” Sam pulled out a chair. 

“Our dearest American dream got held up in the lobby, I’m sure. We have had five different schools over for excursions,” Tony sighed at his phone, “Every day, I open the lab for five minutes to those little gremlins and it’s like they get dipped in the ocean. From fuzzy little Furbies to wicked Chuckies running around trashing the place and absolutely murdering each other.”

“Good thing you don’t have kids, Tony,” Steve sat down and folded his hands on the table, “They were an absolute delight downstairs.”

“You were still late, next round donuts are on you,” Maria smirked, “Jarvis, if you please.”

The lights flicked off, the screen went on. They had raided another Hydra base of operations by the end of the week. 


	9. Chapter 9

The remnant heard a click and stopped in his tracks. A soft fizzing sound trickled down the pipes, a gas dripped down a few seconds later.

One whiff and he recognized the knockout gas. In normal quantities it made him a bit sluggish, but didn’t impede with his function on a drastic level. They had upped the dose, so he sat himself down on the mattress. 

Wilson hadn’t been by for a while. It could be they got tired of his silence and would try different methods. Something he was more familiar with. 

It was the gas that made him feel lighter about it. It took another fifteen minutes of direct exposure before he drifted. 

When he got woken up, he was tied to a chair. It had no halo, but the metal restraints dug in his arm, chest and shoulders. The room was bare, metal floor, tiled walls, sharp light behind fortified plastic glass. A one way mirror staring back at him, camera in each corner. 

Briefly he tested the manacles, but he had lost too much muscle to give it the time of day. 

“Рада тебя видеть, солдат,” the voice of Romanoff over the speakers sounded perky and casual, “Как дела?”

He listened between the static in the speakers, the clacking of heels in the room behind the mirror, the murmur of voices. 

“It’s been a while,” Romanoff continued in English, “You’ve lost some weight, I see. Are they treating you okay?”

In comparison to Wilson her voice sounded just as gentle and concerned. Like she was meeting with an old friend. It either meant he was right about Wilson’s intentions or she was very good at her job. He didn’t dismiss the possibility that both were true. 

“I have some questions for you, if you don’t mind,” she continued not waiting for an answer, “Do you think you have it in you to answer?”

He didn’t need to try to open his mouth to know it was dry and scratchy. Gums bleeding, throat still burning from the last time he was sick. 

“No need to answer, just now, we can make it into a little game,” Romanoff switched on something with a loud click. 

A projection appeared on the mirror in front of him, a simple map of America’s east coast. A few red dots blinked in and out. The bank in DC. The fish factory they raided on the coast. Two other bases Rogers and his team raided while he was the spy. 

“I’m sure you recognize these,” she clicked her tongue, “Would you be a doll and point out a few more for us. All it takes is a look, no need for words, isn’t that the future right there.”

The remnant cast his eyes down for a breath and stared right back. A thousand-yard stare burning into the map in front of him. If this is what they thought would make him talk, they were not upping their game at all. Only making it easier for him. 

“That’s a no then?” Romanoff sounded like she was pouting but grinning at the same time, “Okie dokie, how about these people. Any of these look familiar to you?”

Pictures of Pierce, Rumlow, Zola, Huang and various other Hydra members popped up on the mirror in front of him. He looked at each and everyone an equal amount of time. Even the picture of Bucky Barnes. It might make them happy if he did that. 

“You know a lot of people, soldier,” she gasped, “But here I am thinking that maybe you just need a little incentive.”

He gripped the armrest, squeezing tight. Though he hadn’t noticed any specifics about the chair he was sitting in, or the room for that matter, it could be rigged with electricity, heat, ice, spikes. A towel could drop down from the ceiling and they could hose him down. It didn’t matter, he’d been through it all before. 

Then a picture of Rogers appeared on the screen in front of him. It was one made at the poker night. He was laughing bright, like the sun rising, eyes glinting like starlight. Romanoff didn’t say anything. 

He kept waiting for her to tell him anything, to ask a question, but nothing came. The picture of Rogers stayed on the screen in front of him, filling nearly his entire vision. Somehow he tried to pull the spy up, or the ghost. Either to formulate an answer that would satisfy her, see what Bucky had to say. Or get some distance, see him as a target. It wasn’t clear when he had started thinking of him as Rogers, rather than the target. 

Intently he waited. Listening to the silence over the speakers that came from behind the mirrored wall. 

Rogers didn’t look at the camera, amused by something off screen. There were two cards in his hands, held carelessly, tipped towards the viewer. His posture open and relaxed. No line in his brow, no tension in his shoulders. Clearly surrounded by friends, clearly happy. 

He snapped back the moment she started talking. 

“You see, I noticed something interesting,” Romanoff hummed a little, “When Steve caught you red handed with your hand in the cookie jar. You shot him on the shield. And then. Then you shot him in the knee. Isn’t that quite something.”

The remnant kept his stare up, his breathing under control, the sweat in the palm of his hand unnoticeable.

“Would you like to give some sort of defence on that one,” Romanoff offered, “Or shall we just confirm that you could’ve killed the biggest threat and thorn in Hydra’s side and then decided not to.”

Bile rose further up his throat, black spots filled his vision as the vertigo swerved and the pressure behind his eye swelled. He swallowed and knew that each and every one of them could see. 

He did not complete his mission. He did not kill his target. He did not follow his direct orders. 

“Funny little thing, isn’t it,” Romanoff perused, “Why don’t we leave it at that for today. Give you something to think about.”

Another click sounded and gas drifted in the room. His heartbeat staggered, unwittingly he took a big gulp. The picture of Rogers still on the wall, smiling, like nothing was wrong. 

While the gas forced him backwards, he heard Romanoff’s voice, “Я тебя вижу, солдат.”

Like a lullaby it drifted him to sleep. 

⁂

Every consecutive day he felt more on edge. It was only a matter of time before they would take him out of his cell again for torture. To pry his mind open, clamp it and reach inside. With every consecutive day he struggled more with his routine. 

It became increasingly difficult to keep the food inside, just when he thought he was getting a handle on it. Each bite was hard to swallow, his throat convulsing at the smell of the porridge. He forced himself to sit completely still and try to keep it inside, get any of the nutrients before it found its way up again. Holding it in made it spew out more suddenly as well.

His small workout routine wasn’t doing it either. Partly due to his increased nausea and vertigo, staying on his feet had become a challenge on its own. His knees wobbled, his vision going dark when he straightened, the muscles tightening haphazardly. Sometimes he sat down and didn’t get up before the next tray of food arrived, head dangling between his legs. 

The day he lost count he stayed on the mattress, staring at the imaginary spot on the ceiling, pulsing in and out of focus. 

When they brought him in again, he didn’t hear the click and didn’t notice the gas before it was too late. A splash of water in his face woke him up. His heartbeat racing violently while he struggled in his restraints. Completely in vain. There was no strength in him. 

Hill looked down at him several feet away, her finger pressed to the comm in her ear. She nodded when she had his attention. 

“We’d like to make you an offer,” she said, “We can make your stay here more comfortable, get you some medical attention.”

He tried to get her into focus, but the room shifted and his head was pounding. 

“In exchange for information, anything you can confirm or tell us about Hydra.”

He wondered what would happen if he denied the deal. He wasn’t afraid to die, but he hadn’t thought they’d let him, thought he still had value. Something they wanted. But if they were ready to let him die in that small cell, his contribution was considered minimal. Perhaps the costs of keeping him here were higher than what they thought they could get out of him. 

“You can nod or shake your head if talking is not an option right now,” Hill told him, unmoved and unimpressed by his silence.

He belonged to Hydra. Hydra had created him, had made him the best weapon in their possession. An unstoppable killing machine, a master undercover agent, a world-class sharpshooter. 

Saying yes would mean he belonged to them. To Shield. Go on missions like he had with Rogers. Get a target and kill. There would be no difference from the status quo, just a new handler, a new loyalty to pledge. He could be useful again. He could serve. 

No sound came out of his mouth, the dryness nearly choking him. He coughed, rasping his throat raw. Hill was still looking at him. Her hands tucked in her pantaloons, her feet firm on the metal floor of the cell. 

He nodded. Letting his head drop, feeling the tension grow with the motion. 

Somehow he expected for something to happen, bracing himself for a blow or stab, but it didn’t come. Blood kept whizzing through his ears, sweat drenching the shirt on his back. Hill stayed where she was, far away from him. 

“Are you ready to get started?” 

The remnant wasn’t sure if she waited for an answer or something else to happen. His hand cramped up, pulling him to the side. He quickly nodded, changing the tick into something intentional. 

Hill pulled a list of names on the board, similar to the pictures Romanoff had shown him, but less childish. She took a step aside, so he could look at the names. The letters blurred and faded into each other. If he didn’t recognize the people, he wouldn’t have been able to spell them out. 

“Any names you can confirm here,” Hill pressed the comm to her ear again, but he couldn’t hear what was being said. 

Again he choked, coughed and sputtered out a pathetic grunt. Instead of talking he pulled his fingers up, wringing uncomfortably in the restraints. He held up one. Then two. Five and one. And so on. She kept an eye on him, not writing anything down as he relayed the numbers. It was a long list. 

At the end she only nodded and walked away. The click sounded and they gassed him. He breathed in readily now, eager to get back to his cell. 

But he didn’t go back to the cell. They had tied him down to a bed and held him in intensive care for a few days. It was unclear how long he stayed there as he drifted in and out of consciousness. And when they brought him back clear enough, he was in the mirror room with Hill, answering questions as best he could with one hand tied to a chair. 

When they finally returned him to the cell, they had cleaned him up, washed him, trimmed his beard, gave him a new tunic. The room smelled clearer too, a hint of detergent hung in the air. 

It didn’t help with the nausea though and a wave of vertigo overtook him as he sat up. For a while he rested against the chilling back wall, holding the empty socket with his right hand. Just breathing. In and out. 

Food arrived and offered him something new. Not only did a little cup hold a few big pills, but the menu had changed. A hearty broth with rice, chicken and vegetables. A glass of ginger ale and a side of yoghurt with raisins. It didn’t matter if he’d throw it all up again, he stuffed the food down like he hadn’t eaten in years. The pills went down as well after a moment of hesitation. 

He belonged to Shield now. He was their property and they wanted him to eat the pills. So he did. They’d want their asset to get back in shape and become functional again. So he decided to increase his workout routine. 

After a few days Wilson paid him another visit. The remnant stopped his push ups and stood facing him. He would have clasped his hands behind his back if he had two. Immediately he felt the vertigo tipping him over, but he pressed his teeth together, willing his legs to work. 

“Wow, man, look at you,” Wilson gave a surprised chuckle, “Did they clean you up? How do you feel?”

The remnant didn’t waste his breath trying to answer questions Wilson already knew the answer to. 

“Yeah, Maria told me about it,” Wilson nodded and set his backpack on the ground, “As it goes. This is good. Progress. Get you back on a healthy track.”

He pulled something out of his pack. A few tattered pocket books.

“They told me I can’t actually give it to you,” Wilson grinned sheepishly, “So maybe you’d like me to read to you?”

The books didn’t look like anything worth reading. Generic fiction, nothing to teach him or to educate him on a subject. He cleared his throat, wanting to ask the question why. But if this is what Wilson wanted him to listen to, he’d listen. 

“Anything catch your fancy?” Wilson held three of them up, showing the cover, “Didn’t know what you liked, so I brought some classics: ‘Nineteen Eighty-Four’, ‘Frankenstein’ and ‘The Hobbit’. I thought about bringing ‘To Kill a Mockingbird’ as well. But didn’t want to make it weird by giving you a story about an era you lived through.”

Wilson waited, letting him study the covers, colorful and hard to focus on. Bucky Barnes knew the Hobbit. Or of it. Rogers having read it during a long reaching sick week and every other time he was in bed after that. 

“I can read you the blurbs,” Wilson turned the first book around and started reading. 

The remnant pressed a hand against his throbbing brow and quickly snapped the arm back against his back. It was not allowed. He needed to stay alert. He needed to focus. 

“...and its ominous ruler Big Brother,” Wilson checked to see if there was a response and continued with the other. 

He couldn’t. Staying upright, here in front of Wilson, was taking all of the focus in his body. His knees started to buckle, the vertigo lingering with every twitch of his head, the throbbing behind his eyes getting harder to ignore. A balloon growing in his head. 

“Are you still with me?” Wilson asked, tilting his head.

The remnant nodded and immediately crashed down in front of the toilet, harking up the risotto from before. He let his body convulse and the second it was done, pushed himself back on his feet to stand to attention. 

“I guess we won’t be reading ‘The Hobbit’,” Wilson tucked the books under his arm, “Why don’t you sit down for a bit and I’ll go check with the medical team.”

He followed the order and watched Wilson leave, sitting on the edge of the bed waiting for the knockout gas. It didn’t come. No click or hiss came down the ventilation. He sat and waited anyway, counting the seconds and minutes, turning into an hour. The bag was still there, that way he could tell he hadn’t dissociated yet. 

When Wilson came back his face was set to thunder and didn’t hide it from the remnant either. He wondered if he would be punished for his actions. Getting him into some weird sense of security before finally disciplining him. Instead the expression changed to something of worry. 

“Can you talk? Sign maybe?” Wilson made a gesture, “I don’t know any Russian, I’m afraid.”

The remnant got up and cleared his throat again, still tasting the partially digested food between his teeth, “Yes.”

“No, stay down, sit down,” Wilson waved him down and squatted in front of the glass, “I asked this before but- How are you feeling?”

The remnant searched Wilson’s face, “I’m operational.”

The words came out chopped and soft as a whisper. Nearly overpowered by his rapidly beating heart. For a moment he wondered if Wilson had even heard him, considering the glass didn’t let through any sound for normal people. 

“Okay,” Wilson sighed, staring into the distance for a second, “Okay. Nothing to report? Anything that might… disrupt a mission? We know about the dissociation. Anything else?”

“Food,” he croaked, “Won’t stay down.”

“Yes, that’s something we need to work on. What else?”

His heart rate continued to rise. There were dangers to reporting his failings too. They might go back on their deal. Decide he wasn’t worth it after all. 

“It’s okay, dude, just take your time. I’m going to help you, okay? Help you get better.”

The cushy words didn’t help. If he needed to report, he needed to report. 

“Vertigo,” he nearly choked again, trying to get more spit in his mouth to talk, “Cramp,” he showed his only hand, “Pressure,” and he used it to tap his head.

“Thanks, thank you for sharing,” Wilson raked his hand over his head, “On a scale of one to ten. How much does it hurt?”

The remnant stopped himself from shaking his head, “I’m not in pain.”

“Then how much do you say it would impede with your day to day.”

The question stumped him. He hadn’t considered it impeding with his daily routine. There were no missions and on missions he wouldn’t let it hinder him. The routine was valueless, so there was nothing to impede with. In short Wilson was asking him to relay value to his daily existence here. He hadn’t wanted the puzzlement show on his face, but Wilson picked up on it. 

“That’s okay, let’s skip that question for now,” he picked up one of the books, “Why don’t I read a bit.” 

The remnant didn’t know if he failed to answer the question or if Wilson was being a generic idiot for asking. He tried to listen to the story, but the tension never left. Keeping him ready for anything they might throw at him while he was distracted. 


	10. Chapter 10

Steve flicked his sketchbook open, fingering the empty pages. He hadn’t been able to put pen to paper after his first attempt. Kiana had mentioned that reconnecting with hobbies was important. Or something. She said a lot of things and he said a lot of bullshit back to her. 

Sometimes he wondered if he was just doing his friends a favor by going to see the lady every other week. It was good to talk, for sure, and she didn’t seem to mind if he got stuck talking about the past for a good twenty minutes. 

And the exercises to keep him in touch with feelings, providing him with templates to start conversations or express something. Giving them a place. Acknowledging them and moving past them. 

But he still felt empty. In a way. Dislodged or outside looking in. 

In a weak effort to tell Kiana he tried to do as suggested, he asked Natasha if she could pose for him. Knowing full well that she would say no. Uncomfortable with her likeness being recorded without it being fake. Anxious to see her face reflected back at her. Or perhaps his impression of her. 

They joked about the possibility and left it for coffee and donuts before another mission briefing. 

Any discussion about therapy was carefully shut down, but when he tried to broach the subject for the ninth time she had taken him by the hand and looked him in the eye with a sharp icy glare. 

“I draw my boundaries here, Steve. Please respect them.”

That was the end of it. 

Sam worked with vets every day, he didn’t need his friend to start telling him about the doubts he’d been having. Tony hadn’t even crossed his mind for this, he might be worse than Natasha and made everything a joke. Even himself. 

Steve leaned back against the couch, watching the first rays of spring give the place some warmth. It won’t be long before the whole of Central Park would start to bloom. People breaking out in relief, airing their houses and their hearts that winter had passed. 

He picked up the cup of coffee and his phone, flicking through his email, messages, contacts and pictures. His chest swelled when he went further back through the folder, knowing what was coming. 

The selfie he took in the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island. Bucky had smiled, showing teeth, pulling the corners of his mouth upwards. But there was nothing happy about it. Steve had thought it was because he couldn’t join them in the field. He had told himself that was the reason. Entertaining the thought the man sitting next to him in that tiny little capsule was his enemy was soul-crushing. 

And still he clearly had known. He clearly hadn’t cared. 

Steve turned off the screen, pressing the phone to his head, to his chest, keeping his eyes closed. 

He saw Bucky’s face as he fell down the ravine. He saw Bucky’s face before Steve lost consciousness on the helicarrier. A piercing icicle straight to the chest. A swell of shattering cold water rushing up to meet him, filling his lungs. The heat of panic, replaced by a numbness, a resignation and a chill in his bones that had never really left.

For months Sam had been visiting him on the Raft. ‘An excuse to fly’, he had once said. Though they both knew there were so many better places to fly to. Maria and Natasha had gotten him to talk, after they started scheduling missions with no previous leads or indications. 

His friends were spending time with him and told him to stay away at the same time. Destiny brought them together and wedged them so far apart. Steve wondered what was more painful, being alone in a new world or knowing there were still people with the same background that he couldn’t spend time with. 

Eventually he did wander down to Tony’s lab. Bringing something to eat and drink as Pepper always complained he skipped too many meals. Jarvis announced his arrival and Tony was already busy shoving his work aside, making room at his table for the food. 

“My favorite president, you know, besides Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, our sweet, sweet Teddy and all the other we’re supposed to salute on the fourth of July,” Tony scrambled to get an extra chair, “It’s nice of you to grace me with your presence, what’s the occasion?” 

“Just in the neighborhood,” Steve set the bag of burritos down, “Guess I needed to get out of my own head for a little while.”

“Greatest strategic mind of our previous generation is an overthinker, who would’ve thought,” Tony glanced at the illegible inscriptions on the different wrappers and decided on something, “I can show you what I’ve been working on, if you’re interested.”

Tony glanced up at him, his hands still on the burrito in his hands. It was a peculiar moment, Steve found. Usually Tony kept himself busy, jumping from one point to the next, taking something in his hands, fiddling to keep himself focused. Now he was only looking at him. 

Steve then noticed the pieces around the workbench. Bent alloy, curved and delicate, intricate mechanics and electronic components. The shape of an elbow, the bow of a shoulder, the palm of a hand.

“It’s not a new suit then,” Steve swallowed, unwrapped his own food and pushed it in his mouth. 

Tony shrugged, “I left it aside for a while, as you know, got those returning arrows made for Clint. And while I was working on my own suit, I had an idea to improve the grip sensitivity and texture sensations and one thing led to another.” 

Steve nodded, stuffing himself with food. 

“And after they cut off the arm they collected a whole bunch of interesting data on how it was connected onto his nervous system,” Tony wiggled his fingers, “I still don’t understand how he worked so well with it, considering how primitive the feedback must’ve been. But it kinda makes sense, you know, they didn’t want a whole lot of pain information to be sent back to the brain.”

“They removed it then,” Steve desperately searched the bag for the energy drinks, “The whole arm.”

“You didn't know then?” Tony grabbed a loose metal hand from under the table, wires and metal sticking out of the wrist, “I got it lying around here somewhere. Jarvis, where did I put that arm? It can’t be far.”

“It’s underneath the far side table, sir,” Jarvis said, blinking a light in the back of the lab. 

“Right, of course, that’s where I leave all my mechanical arms,” Tony mumbled, rolled his chair across the room, to root around in a crate below the table. 

Steve licked his fingers wondering if he should tell Tony to leave it, tell him that he needed to take care of himself, that he shouldn’t dwell on Bucky and look forward. To the future. But the arm slapped heavy on the workbench. The red star on the shoulder glaring at him. Thick wires trailed from the socket onto the floor. 

“I don’t have the reinforcement plates that were attached to his spine, removing them lasted seven hours, or so I heard,” Tony picked up his burrito for another bite, “They had to break them piece by piece or risk giving him some mechanical legs on top of that.”

Mortified Steve stared up at Tony and back down at the arm, “They didn’t, right?”

“It all went well, if that’s what you’re asking,” Tony munched ahead, dripping salsa on his chin, “The guy’s got your healing serum. Right as rain. Like yourself. How’s the knee? You up and kicking again? Wasn’t sure if the material was decent enough to compare to your enhanced bones and muscles. Or if it would be rejected.”

“The knee is fine,” Steve dropped his burrito and wiped his fingers on his jeans, “So they haven’t given him a prosthetic, to replace it?”

“Nah, no need,” Tony shrugged, “What’s he gonna do with it? Play patty cake with the wall? Look, I’m just making the other one because I can. Because it’s interesting. He’ll probably never get the chance, but maybe I can set up a line for war veterans, you know. Jarvis, how’s that for a good idea? Does Peps already have something like that going? Can you put it on her agenda?”

“Certainly, sir,” Jarvis replied nondescript. 

Steve couldn’t take his eyes off the metal arm. The idea that it was once attached to Bucky and now it was here, lying lifeless on the table, like a disabled gun. It made him sick. 

He never asked Bucky about it. Or, he should say, the Winter Soldier. There were gloves and long sleeves, even on hot days. Tucked away in pockets or behind his back. Steve figured he didn’t want people to see that part of him and it appeared that was exactly the case. But for all the wrong reasons. 

Slowly he reached out, touching the metal fingers with his own. It was cold. 

“Observant of you, Capster,” Tony swallowed the last of his food, “The fingers are especially interesting. Like clockwork so precise. You think a little bit of blue godmother fairy dust made this into a real little boy. With a real arm. With the grip like a crocodile’s jaw. ”

He slipped his hand between the rigid fingers, there was no bending them. Like touching the dead. 

“No moving them like that. Deadlocked,” Tony explained, pulling up a device and hooking it up to some of the wires, “Need a power source.”

The moment the arm whirred, Steve pulled his hand back, “It’s fine, Tony, it’s fine.”

“It took me awhile to figure out how they all put it together,” Tony ignored Steve’s feeble protest, pushing the fingers straight now that it had a current, “He must’ve received some different arms throughout the years, explains why they had to cut so deep in the shoulder.”

“How deep?” Steve heard himself asking. 

He recognized the anger rising in him now. The injustice he wanted to correct, a friend he wanted to protect. How it puffed up his chest and strung his hands into fists. 

“Scooped it all out,” Tony made a popping sound, “I reckon it wasn’t like that to begin with, but to improve the stability it might’ve been better to make the whole humerus of metal. Here let me show you.”

“No,” Steve bumped the table, “No, thank you Tony. Thanks.”

Without another word he left the lab. Vaguely he remembered Kiana telling him to get out before the anger exploded. At the time, he always thought that he had that under control. Now he wasn’t so sure anymore. 

⁂

It hadn’t taken him long to contact Sam about it. Setting him down in his living room, serving him coffee and lemon bars from the bakery down the street he liked so much. Sam was on it like a blood hound but waited patiently, watching Steve busy himself with wiping down the kitchen counter and reorganizing the utensils. 

“This is nice, Steve,” Sam hung over the back of the couch, “Would be nicer if you came and enjoy it with me.”

“Tell me about him,” Steve told the counter, rinsed the cloth and tossed it over the tap. 

“Okay,” Sam said flatly and grabbed his mug. 

Perhaps Steve had been expecting an argument that Sam obviously wasn’t going to bring. All the fight left him immediately, leaving him only eager and anxious. He sat down, leaving his own cup cooling. 

“Now where to start…” Sam brushed his head, “I figured you’d want to know sooner or later, but now I’m at a loss for words.”

“Just tell me how he is,” Steve clasped his hands tight, not letting them form into fists.

Sam blew out a whistle, “Can’t say he’s doing good, Steve. Everything they feed him, it comes right up, he’s lost a lot of body weight. If he still had the arm, he’d have trouble lifting it, is what I’m saying.”

“But the serum…”

“I don’t know how it all works. They injected you with steroids and you came out buff, but maybe it wasn’t the same for him,” Sam sipped his coffee, “And if he was losing time before, he’s definitely losing it now.”

“You notice when he does?”

“It’s strange, I guess, he listens, I can tell him to do stuff, stand up, sit down. And he will, completely calm. But he won’t talk to me,” Sam smiles grimly, “If he’s aware he gets extremely tense, bordering on hyperventilation, keeps tabs on me from the corner of his eyes.”

Steve shook his head and got up again, just to walk around, stop by the window, circle to the kitchen again, “He talks to you then?”

“He didn’t before. We’ve had some brief conversations since then,” Sam set his mug down, “Why the sudden change of heart, Steve? You want to go visit him? I can’t recommend it.”

“Because it’s bad for me,” Steve couldn’t help the way it came out, clammy and angry. 

Like he was blaming Sam. 

“Because you won’t like what you see,” Sam sighed got up and joined him looking out to the balcony, “This guy isn’t your friend from before, not Bucky, not pretending to be Bucky. And you need to be ready to see someone else inside that same skin.”

“Jesus Christ,” Steve breathed, crossing his arms. 

“Come on,” Sam pulled at his shoulder into a hug. 

Steve let himself be patted on the back, but couldn’t relax into the embrace. No matter how well meant it was. 

“But if you want to bust him out,” Sam said as he let go, “I got your back.”

“What?” Steve stared at him slack jawed, “You want to bust out the Winter Soldier. The guy that pretended to be my best friend just to pass some info to Hydra? Nearly killing me?”

“Hey, I take offence to that,” Sam waggled a finger and motioned him back towards the couch, “The thing is, and Natasha agrees with me here, he didn’t kill you. He had the chance. He had so many chances to just off every single one of us, but he didn’t.”

“It wasn’t in his orders,” Steve couldn’t believe he was actually trying to play the devil’s advocate here.

“When that Hydra woman was screaming, you don’t think she didn’t order to have you killed?” Sam chuckled, sat himself down and plucked a lemon bar from the plate, “And as a brainwashed POW he deserves some context.”

Steve plopped down in his seat, deflated, at a loss for words. 

“That place is not right for him, I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately,” Sam admitted, “He needs help.”

For months Steve had been trying to put this past him and around every corner, along every page he thought of Bucky. Or the Winter Soldier. Or the man who knew him, from before, but didn’t care. But he’d been so caught up in his own involvement that he lost sight of the actual brainwashed POW locked up at the raft. 

Sam was right.

“Shit,” Steve looked around the apartment frantically, searching for his shield, “Okay, let’s do this.” 

He wondered if he should bring it at all. This might not be something he wanted to do as Captain America. So he’d need a normal kevlar outfit, some proper army boots, a gun maybe. They needed to get there, couldn’t rely merely on Sam’s wings to bring them back. He doubted he could even lift two men, even with the upgrade, even when Bucky apparently lost so much weight. 

Tony might lend them something.

“Whoa, Steve, my man, not right now,” Sam pushed him back gently at the shoulder, “Let’s think this through, maybe we can get Natasha on board.”

“Natasha has been very vehement against him,” Steve slipped past him, grabbing the tablet from the kitchen table, “Do we have blueprints of the Raft?”

“Steve, listen to me, you’re running off the tracks,” Sam sighed, “If you break him out like some sort of criminal, what are you going to do? You can’t bring him here. You’re going to hide away in a little hut in Polynesia? That’s not gonna do him any good, he needs help. Professional help.”

Steve dropped the tablet back on the table and groaned, “Listen Sam. If I stop to think about this, I won’t be able to do it. I can’t wait.”

“We’re not waiting,” Sam grabbed his phone, “Let’s plan this.”

He dialed Natasha’s number and sat down at the kitchen table. Steve could hardly listen to the conversation. The image of Bucky on that table, of him tied to the ground in the cell, the idea of him set in that chair. The chair. 

Then the image of the Winter Soldier opposing him on the Helicarrier, aiming another gun at him at the Hydra base. The weak smile at Coney Island. The man was not his friend any longer. 

But he needed a new one right now. 

“She’ll be right over,” Sam told him and clasped his shoulder, “Now let’s sit down and finish those cakes.”

⁂

“No,” Maria snapped and grabbed her coat that she just hung over the back of a chair, “I’m not even going to entertain that idea. It’s out of the question.”

“Maria,” Steve rose from his chair only to be pulled down again by Sam. 

“You can at least hear us out, Maria,” Sam put on his reasonable voice, but she didn’t look impressed. 

“No, I won’t,” Maria shrugged on her jacket, taking her purse, “I’m sure it’ll sound very reasonable and tragic, but I can’t allow it. Simple as that.”

“No wonder he cracked,” Natasha had her feet up on the table, “You’re as stubborn as a goat.”

“Was that supposed to be flattery?” Maria immediately shook her head, “No, I’m not going to take your bait, Nat. I don’t know what you’re doing here, but it’s up to no good.” 

“Ahw,” Natasha pouted but wasn’t trying very hard to make it look good, “And here I thought that those late nights oversharing you my deepest darkest secrets would make a good case. Guess you don’t really care about me at all.”

“Oh my God,” Maria clasped a hand over her eyes. 

Steve gave Natasha a questioning look but only got a wink in return. 

“That’s such a low blow,” Maria slumped down in a chair, her jacket crumpling up, “Why am I friends with you people.”

“Yeah probably a bad call,” Natasha quipped and nodded to Sam to take the floor.

“Let’s just talk about it, Maria,” Sam got up to get her a cup of coffee and a donut, “Work together to a solution.”

“Okay fine, besides getting him out of prison, where he belongs, what do you need from me?” Maria took the coffee and pointed to Sam to get her the other donut, “You already got visiting rights, that’s more than what anyone else gets on that ship.”

“There’s a whole list of points on which we can improve his circumstances,” Sam pulled up his phone and transferred her a list. 

“We already improved his circumstances, didn’t we Natasha?” she shot an icy glare, but shriveled up by Natasha’s unbothered look. 

Reluctantly Maria looked at the list, pursing her lips and twisting it into a frown as she flicked through it. Steve had promised to stay in the background, in an attempt not to rile things up, but with every second passed he felt his blood rise and his mind go blank. 

“I can’t approve any of these requests as is,” Maria didn’t look very apologetic, but she was trying, “Let’s select a handful and see if we can reach a compromise somewhere.”

“Okay, sure,” Sam started scrolling through the list. 

Steve couldn’t deal with it anymore. He got up, the chair squealing against the linoleum. Heading for the door.

“Steve?” Maria snapped, clearly annoyed, “I’m trying here. Where are you going?”

“Out,” he announced and slammed the door behind him. 

“He needs a moment, let him go,” he overheard Sam say behind the door. 

It disgusted him even more that he couldn’t even be in the room where they discussed Bucky’s privileges. With a friend. He had seen the list Sam had composed. He’d seen it and asked him how any of these things weren’t already in place. 

Steve stalked down towards the elevator, not even sure where he was going. When he got on, the elevator moved without him giving a destination. 

He supposed Jarvis intervened somewhere with it, as he ended up on the tower rooftop garden. There were hardly any people, it was still too early in spring for people to be enjoying the outdoors. But there were a few hard working gardeners making the garden ready for the coming bloom. 

Steve didn’t need a jacket. His temperature ran higher than most. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel the chill. Especially right now. Still he walked over to the gazebo that delivered a great view of the skyline. 

Though it never did beat the view from the Wonder Wheel down at the water. The glittering lights reflected in the water, the whole city in front of them. Like opportunity. Like life was still in front of them. From here it was all reminiscent. 

His phone buzzed and he resisted to toss it off the building. It would probably hurt someone. It was Sam, asking if he cooled enough, if he was ready to come back down, see if he would be okay with the conditions. 

There was no other option than to be ready or he’d be left out of the conversation entirely. It was going to be difficult to handle this objectively as he possibly could. No matter how hard he tried to treat the Winter Soldier as a different person, he would still have Bucky’s face. Stepping aside might save him from impulsive and emotional outburst, but didn’t help the POW stuck in a cell right now. He needed to get a hold of the situation. 

Steve let Jarvis take him down to the meeting room where Natasha looked up from her tower of donuts and Maria was watching a compilation of cat videos on the big screen. 

“You weren’t the only one who needed a break,” Sam whispered to him and pulled up a short list for him to see.

“Thanks Sam,” Steve couldn’t watch the list just yet and sat down next to Maria instead. 

“I can’t stress enough that security of you and the public is my number one priority, Steve,” Maria didn’t look at him, but chose another compilation instead, “I can’t discount that he was able to trick all of us for months even if he is as harmless as a kitten right now.”

“I know, Maria,” Steve nodded, “It’s why I took myself out of the equation for a moment, but I’m back now. Let’s get over that shortlist, so we can get this thing moving.”


	11. Chapter 11

The remnant heard Wilson approach, the speakers in his cell crackling to pick up the sound. He got up, let the nausea and vertigo wash over him. They hadn't fed him yet, so there was nothing to come up. He wondered about the timing too, as Wilson usually didn't come around these times.

Something was said, but he couldn't hear it and it put him on edge, his hand cramping up behind his back.

Wilson showed him an apologetic smile when he appeared, confirming his suspicion.

“How are you doing, bro?” Wilson asked him as the remnant seized him up.

A backpack on his shoulders, not unusual. There were no guards in sight, also on par. No reasons yet to get in position or take action. Nothing to do but to let Wilson have his say.

“So, I've been pushing real hard to make some changes for you,” Wilson said, still with the lopsided grin, “And I hope you're gonna like them.”

Changes were hardly ever good. Liking them was completely irrelevant. There were no questions asked so he waited.

“First off, you're going to have a proper medical assessment, face to face, with your input. Not unconscious or invasive, we're going to figure out how to get you healthy again,” Wilson smiled, hopeful as if it meant something to him, “On top of that, there'll be proper showers, brushing teeth, change of clothes available to you on your command, the regiment they had for you was clearly not working.”

The remnant wasn't aware of any regiment regarding it. Once a week they turned on the shower for him in his cell and he used it to scrub most of the grime, vomit and blood away. That was it. Or he wasn't aware of it.

“Also lights out, at night, for six hours,” Wilson continued, “Cameras are infrared though, I’m sure you know.”

He still wasn’t sure if he was supposed to do something with this information. But Wilson seemed adamant telling him about, visually getting excited. 

“So this one was pretty tricky, but I got you books too,” Wilson slipped the bag off his shoulder and showed him the contents, “You’ll get one a day and have to give it back before lights out. They like to keep a tight leash on everything but we’re moving in the right direction, don’t you think?”

Wilson was expecting him to say something here, but he had no thoughts about it so he kept silent. A flash of disappointment showed on his face and he glanced back into the hallway. Probably having a silent conversation with the person he came in with. 

“Okay, so all these things are pieces of a larger plan to make you healthier,” Wilson held up his fingers, “Food, hygiene, sleep and something to fight the boredom. Cornerstones for getting you back on your game, see? Now I’ve got one more thing for you, but this one you’ll have to give me an answer.”

Wilson stopped there for a moment, trying to formulate his words. 

“You can give me a yes, no, or whatever. It’s entirely up to you and the answer won’t affect anything we just discussed, right? You with me so far?”

“Yes,” the remnant didn’t really understand the terms, but he hadn’t blacked out yet.

“I brought Steve along, he’d like to say hi,” Wilson gave the corridor another glance, “Would you like to see him too?”

The remnant waited for more, but nothing came. That was the question. If he wanted to agree to see Rogers. But it wasn’t true. Rogers didn’t want to see the remnant. 

“He wants to see Bucky Barnes,” he stated.

Wilson’s face fell, but he was quick to pick it up, “No. No, he’s here to see you. You don’t have to… to act.”

“I don’t understand the question.”

Wilson swallowed hard, “I should’ve come more prepared,” he scratched his head, “I want to give you more agency. Some autonomy about your whole situation as you obviously had none for over seventy years. But it’s fine if you can’t right now. Are you okay with having me make the decision for you?”

“Yes.”

“Of course you are,” Wilson mumbled, seeming completely defeated, but he waved Rogers over from the corridor, “We’re going to keep it short, alright?” 

The remnant took a step back when Rogers stepped up to the glass. His knee healed, not a limp apparent. Romanoff called it ‘funny’ that he hadn’t killed his target. That he failed his mission. Not they wanted to rub it in his face. Another torture tactic perhaps. 

“How are you doing, Bu- buddy?” Rogers pressed his hand to the glass, leaving a large print.

He waited but didn’t get a reply. 

“Is there something we can call you, do you have a name?” Rogers asked, getting an encouraging look from Sam. 

“No,” the remnant replied, feeling the room swirl around him, “I’ll respond to anything.”

“You don’t call yourself anything?” Wilson asked, settling a hand on Rogers’s shoulder. 

He did. But no one asked him about it. Ever. Whether he was the spy or the ghost or the soldier. It never mattered. They told him the mission, who or what they needed him to do. Gave him a cover identity if needed. Sent him on his way. 

“It’s irrelevant,” he said, pulsing his hand behind his back. 

“How about you find a name we can call you,” Wilson suggested, “Kinda as an exercise.”

“This is an order.” he stated to clarify

Rogers turned around, somehow distressed. Wilson let him go. 

“It’s not an order,” Wilson said gently, “But something to think about. People have names and you’re in the unique position of picking one. You can think of one yourself, or select one from a book you like, or even turn back to Barnes if that makes things easier. It’s entirely up to you.”

“Understood.”

He did not understand. Not really. If they wanted him to have a name they could give one to him. But it was a basic enough task. Pick a name and supply them with it.

Wilson seemed satisfied. Rogers turned back around, arms crossed tight around his chest. 

“I have to say,” Rogers huffed a laugh, “You did a good job pretending to be Bucky. How do you know so much about the past? On the Helicarrier you didn’t remember me.”

“I remember being Bucky Barnes,” the remnant said, “The memories were not relevant to the mission at the time.”

“So you pretended not to know me,” Rogers flushed, jaw clenching.

“Don’t do this now,” Wilson interjected, “Come on, Steve.”

“Yes,” the remnant hooked his sweaty hand in the back of his tunic, “I estimated it would cause you some level of emotional distress.”

Rogers didn’t reply, the frown on his brow increasing. The remnant wondered if he should continue. If Rogers didn’t want to know, he wouldn’t have asked. 

“Which increased the opportunity to compromise you. It paid off.”

“That it did,” Wilson nodded, “That it certainly did. Listen, you think about that name and Steve and I will work on compartmentalizing.”

He pulled Rogers away through the corridor, out of view. 

Controlled the remnant sat down on his mattress, keeping the vertigo in check and his arm from spazzing out. Quietly he took a long breath in and out. His beating heart trying to slam its way up through his throat. 

They were always watching so he looked at the camera. There was no doubt in his mind that Romanoff would have something to say about this little encounter too. Call it ‘funny’.

⁂

As Wilson had said, lights went out a few hours after the meal. He spent the majority of it staring up at the ceiling and the shimmer of the cameras, reflecting the soft glow of lights further down in the corridor. 

The day after they presented him with a new tunic, a toothbrush already covered in toothpaste and a hairbrush. Both made of flexible silicone. As directed he used them, setting them back on the tray when he was done. On the far side wall a panel opened up. A button to turn on the water and a pump for soap. 

He kept it brief and efficient. Bucky Barnes liked to take care of himself. Shave, model his hair, get all the grime from underneath his fingernails. He was not Bucky Barnes. 

The following day the tray also gave him a book. It vaguely recognized it as the one that Wilson had started reading to him. 1984. 

But with every word he tried to read, his hand whipped out uncontrollably, his vertigo spun him into orbit, the pressure behind his eye made his head explode. He also lost time again. When he became aware, he found the book crumpled in the other end of the room. 

He picked it up, bent it right and didn’t open it again. They offered him a different book the next day. 

Throughout the nights he thought about Sam’s task of finding a name and experienced that it wasn’t as clear cut as he thought it would be. Considering his gender, he cut it down to male names only. Just to help make the selection smaller. 

There were simple options of John, George, Harold, Richard, Jim. But he knew other people by those names. He had had covers with those names. 

There were plenty of names presented in the books. Harry Potter, Winston Smith, Robert Langdon, Jay Gatsby, Fitzwilliam Darcy. None of those felt like a role he was interested in playing. 

Instead he tried theorising what kind of name they would like him to have. Bucky Barnes obviously came to mind. It was easy and available. He could eventually slip in _being_ Bucky Barnes again in the future. Then there was Rogers. Deliberately he had used the name and memories of Bucky Barnes to debilitate him emotionally. Picking the name would send some sort of message and he wasn't a hundred percent sure what that message would bring across. 

Being Bucky Barnes had been difficult but compared to all the other covers he had, also the one that came easiest. If he believed Wilson, they didn’t want him to act anymore. So he couldn’t be Bucky Barnes. 

He continued to think about it. 

After five days a woman came up to the glass. She had a tablet in her hands and a professional smile on her face. He stood up for her, to attention. She brought her own chair. A little fold out stool. 

“I’m Ghufran,” she laid a hand on her chest, “Do you have a name?”

“No,” he told her and wondered if it meant he failed his assignment. 

Instead she nodded, “I’ll be your doctor. I’d like to tell you in your own words what issues you have and we’ll figure out which one will bring the most instant relief and work on that. How does that sound to you?” 

“Understood,” he said and watched her settle the tablet on her lap, “There are problems with nutrition, vertigo, cramp and pressure. Dissociation.”

He pointed at the affected areas, keeping his body standing as he swung his arm around. 

“Very good,” she wrote it down, “Tell me about the nutrition problems.”

“I eat and it comes back up.”

There wasn’t much to say about the subject. 

“Does it come up right away?” 

He frowned as the ‘yes’ already formed in his throat. Because it hadn’t. Not anymore. During his first few weeks as Bucky Barnes the food disagreed with him and eating itself was a process. Now it went down well most of the time, but came back up later. 

“No, not anymore,” he admitted. 

“Alright, so what happens before you throw up the food,” she wrote more stuff on her tablet. 

The action made him a bit nervous. He couldn’t see what she was writing and it was none of his business anyway. But it made him want to throw up again. 

“I don’t know,” he told her.

“So we’ll work on figuring that out,” she tipped her head and twirled the hem of her skirt, “I’ll have them provide you with a worksheet. And everytime you throw up, or feel like throwing up, you write down exactly what went on before that. Do you think you’re up to that?”

“Yes,” he told her but he wasn’t sure at all. 

If he couldn’t remember why he threw up now, it wouldn’t be any clearer later. 

“Well that was easy, do you feel like getting an additional task or would you like to leave it here?”

The remnant was stumped. Wilson had also formulated demands like it. She didn’t supply him with any additional information either. What did an additional task entail? What would it mean if he chose to leave it? She waited patiently. He did not answer. 

“Do you find it a difficult question?” she slammed the hammer on the head. 

“Yes,” there was no use lying to a doctor. 

They would find out anyway once they started digging in his intestines. Or feeding him different kinds of drugs. Or hooking up apparatus directly to his brain. 

“Why is that?” Ghufran folded her hands on top of her tablet as if she caught him looking. 

He bit on his teeth. He felt his heartbeat quicken, his breast rise and fall. The vertigo tried to pull the rug out from underneath. He had sat or stood in front of countless physicians and only Bucky Barnes had trouble holding their gaze. He had trouble now. 

Let alone answer it. 

“Try and formulate what is going on with you right now,” she proposed instead, “Describe it for me.”

He pulled open his mouth and quickly shut it again. Just in case he would throw up all over the glass. Again he tried to focus on breathing, find his center, his target, disconnect. 

“Elevated heartbeat, hyperventilation, acute nauseation, inability to focus, increase in vertigo, increase in pressure behind the eyes,” he stated for her. 

He stared straight ahead, looking through her. She was not a target. Just collateral damage. 

From his peripheral vision he saw her nod, satisfied by his assessment maybe. Or happy with the result of her experiment. 

“Sounds a lot like a panic response, doesn’t it?” 

He immediately snapped to her. Enraged. His body burned with disgust. He did not panic. 

“Does my observation upset you?” she asked as if she couldn’t tell, politely, innocently. 

She was not innocent. She was a doctor, conducting her experiment. 

When he took a step forward, she stayed perfectly still. Her hands still folded on her lap. She was not afraid, why would she be. He was an animal in a cage. There were men with shock sticks ready just around the corner. He might as well be leashed. He could not afford to be angry with doctors. 

“No,” he took his step back and wanted to take more to shut her out, “I’m fine.”

She hadn’t had the chance to respond before the bile rushed up and he flung himself over the toilet. Hurling he gripped the metal bowl, squeezing it, wringing it out, willing it to bend. It didn’t. Instead he sat there retching, even when there was nothing to throw up anymore. 

Ghufran was still there when he turned on the shower to wash out his mouth. She looked up from her typing, still smiling, still very pleasant. 

“Seems we got an answer for that question we asked before. We’re making progress with every step.”

The remnant stood back in front of her, his head lowered, docile. Though they never took pity on him when he was out of line. Enjoyed it even more sometimes when they beat him after he showed remorse.

“How about we leave it at this, for now,” she tapped the last dot on her tablet, got up and folded her little chair, “I’ll be back after one day. I’ll let you get back to that reading.”

There was no question asked, so he didn’t answer. 

⁂

Wilson came back after another week. Hauling another bag full of books. 

“Brought you some more variety too,” he pulled out, “Cookbooks, autobiographies, history books, photography books, botanical ones, how-to books as well. You name it.”

He got up, in position, looked at the books as Wilson presented them. Looked around him too. 

“Steve’s not here today, don’t worry,” Wilson hid his expression behind a large picture book with old and new maps from different areas around the world.

“Okay,” he managed, feeling the tension drain out, “I haven’t finished the selection. But. Books help. With the panic attacks.”

“Hey, that’s great, I’m glad they are helping,” Wilson glowed with satisfaction, “Panic attacks, huh? That’s rough.”

“Apparently.”

Wilson chuckled but lost it quickly at the lack of response, “Have you thought about a name? Or do you need more time?”

“Yes,” he told Wilson, “Both.”

The doctor had told him that there were more answers than ‘yes’ or ‘no’ most of the time, even if it didn’t look like it at first glance. It didn’t feel right. It was still a failed mission in his eyes. 

“Well take your time,” Wilson told him as if he conspired with Ghufran, “It’s difficult for sure.”

“I don’t understand. Just call me something,” he clasped his hand into a fist behind his back, “It would be more efficient.”

“That defeats the point though, doesn’t it,” Wilson stuffed all the books back in his bag, “You don’t get a sense of self if someone else tells you who to be or what to be called.”

“It’s just a name.”

“If it was just a name you would’ve called yourself something already,” Wilson shot out a finger gun and a cheeky grin. 

“Why do I need a sense of self?” he ignored the cheeky back talk, “Is this preparation for a mission?”

“Ahw geez, nah bro. This isn’t some kind of freaky mission prep,” Wilson shrugged the backpack back on, “Look, I don’t know what Maria or whoever you give your intel to has told you. You won’t be sent on missions anywhere in the near future.”

“Why not?” he grunted, feeling the tension rise, “These panic attacks are only temporary. With a mission I can focus. Or put me in the chair and it’ll reset.”

“Jesus fucking Christ man,” Wilson breathed, devastated, “Okay, euhm, let me think for a second.”

He waited for Wilson, who held his face in hand, shoulders slumped. Instead of getting distracted by his cramping hand, he thought about the book he was reading. A tale of magic and dragons and the naming of things. 

“Look at it this way,” Wilson clasped his hands together, dead serious, “You have the panic attacks now, because they used that chair on you. Your brain is trying to knit itself together, but still interprets certain situations differently as they actually are, resulting in some of your symptoms.”

“PTSD,” he heard this tune before.

“Yes!” Wilson exclaimed, “Yes, exactly. I can get you books about it, if you want. I know some really good ones, we used them at the VA all the time. They are good reading.”

“If I’m not going to be used for missions, why waste resources to keep me here?” he demanded, brushing Wilson’s excitement aside. 

“Because we don’t execute people. Especially brainwashed POWs.”

Wilson almost sounded convincing. 

“So what,” he cleared his throat, feeling the sweat in his palm and on his forehead, “I’m here indefinitely?”

He was good at waiting. But waiting usually meant there was something he was waiting for.. His body didn't like the idea. The vertigo spinning him around. 

“I’m trying to make it not indefinite,” this time Wilson shot a careful look at the camera in the corner, “But it’s hard work, just like getting healthier. We’ll get there.”

He didn’t believe him. What he would be waiting now for was the inevitable execution.

⁂

Rogers came alone this time, stomping down the corridor with long, strong strides. He acted like he didn’t have trouble meeting his gaze, fiddling around with a bag he brought. Swallowing words not deemed worthy. 

“Hi,” Rogers started after a full minute, “How’ve you been?”

“Mentally compromised,” he said. 

They didn’t need to ask him every time. It wasn’t going to change anytime soon to their own accords. But he understood the formality. 

“I came to apologize, actually,” Rogers frowned, puffing himself up, chin high, “I’m sorry I was such an asshole the other time. I felt betrayed, but you were only answering my questions.”

He stared at Rogers, hearing the words, understanding the meaning, but nothing in it made any kind of sense. His mouth fell open, but no words found their way out.

“Now don’t look at me like I’m the idiot,” Rogers shrugged, seemingly flustered, “Go sit down. I’m not gonna spend a whole hour looking up at you standing there.”

With that, Rogers slumped down on the metal floor, flicked his sketchbook open and pulled a pencil out of his pocket. 

The order helped him out of the haze immediately and his knees nearly buckled as he sat down. On the floor. Which was still a bit wet from the shower he had that morning. 

“I brought some snacks. The amount of candy in this century is amazing,” Rogers set down a plastic bag, pulling out various colorful bars and pouches, “Nothing from before, figured we could focus on going forward. Bucky didn’t like chocolate before the war, let’s see if you do.”

“You do not want me to be Bucky Barnes?”

“No!” Rogers flattened the plastic bag with a puff, “No, please don’t. If you’re not him, then please let him be dead.”

Rogers squished the bag in a fist, “Do you want to be Bucky?”

He couldn’t answer that. His eyes watering. Carefully he breathed in and out. Trying to focus on either ‘yes’ or ‘no’. It was impossible. There was no answer. 

“I don’t know,” he said, feeling like he failed the mission all over again. 

“Well,” Rogers swallowed hard, not looking at him, “Well it’s your decision. Not mine.”

“Do you want me to tell you what happened? To him?”

Rogers could straight up ask him what he wanted from him. But was unlikely to, now that he had shown his previous deception and ability to emotionally compromise Rogers. Rogers knew better than to believe anything coming from him. And if Shield wanted to use him, there was no value in getting the upper hand now. 

Rogers shook his head, “Some other time maybe. It’s tough for me. Losing you- losing Bucky. Trice I suppose, in a way.”

With a sharp breath, Rogers brushed all the laid out candy bars back in a pile. He held on to one, twisting it between his hands, crinkling the plastic. 

“This is my favorite,” Rogers held up a pack of Skittles, “Clint made me try it and it’s really good, they are like jelly beans. Natasha likes the sour ones, they make her face scrounge up, it’s hilarious.”

Bucky Barnes had liked Reese’s, despite the chocolate, he knew. Rogers hadn’t brought any. 

They shared another few moments of silence. He kept his eyes on Rogers, on his face, his hands, the candy being piled and shoved around. Ghufran told him he was free to ask questions and he did. He had his shot.

“You read any good books lately?” Rogers asked, “Sam brings in a stack every time, I know.”

“I read the books.” 

“Which one’s your favorite?” Rogers pressed a forced smile through his lips. 

He wasn’t sure what qualified as a favorite. They were all functional stories or teaching material. He knew what Bucky Barnes liked to read, pulpy sci-fi novellas and his favorite was a small battered paperback given to him by a dockworker. Armageddon 2419 A.D. by Philip Francis Nowlan. But there were no words to describe what he had liked about it anymore. 

“I don’t know,” he said eventually when Rogers was still clearly waiting for an answer. 

As soon as the words dropped again his vision blurred and his hand cramped. He pressed his fingers in his knee, letting his hair hide his face. Forcing himself to breathe deeply. 

“Hey, that’s alright,” Rogers had placed his large hand against the thick glass, his palm whitening, “Not everyone has favorites? Should I call anyone for you?”

After a few deep breaths in and some stuttering out, he made himself look away from the hand and look back. The pity clearly visible on Rogers’s face made his jaw clench.

“We are monitored. They know,” he quickly picked up the book from his bunk, “I’ve been reading this.”

“Photography for beginners,” Rogers read, “Sounds difficult without a camera to try it on.”

“It has some overlap with my skill set.”

Rogers blinked at him, pressing his teeth together. He took a breath. but pinched the bridge of his nose instead. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, “Let me take your picture and you can help me with the settings.”

They fiddled around with the meager settings on the phone, while he explained not to use flash or the window would reflect it all. While he sat back down to pose, the bile burned in the pit of his stomach, his hand hadn’t stopped cramping and he pushed it through his hair. Rogers watched the screen, the camera aimed directly at him. 

Why it suddenly caused a reaction in his body was unclear. He was well aware they were recording him from all angles and through all means. Rogers making a photo shouldn’t upset him. It hadn’t upset him as the spy. Ghufran told him to write down the situation when his heart rate picked up, but he couldn’t move. He’d ruin the shot. 

A click.

And it was done. 

“There we go,” Rogers crawled forward until he was against the glass and pressed the screen against it, “What do you think?”

He had seen the picture being made, but it didn’t feel real. As if he had lost time and Rogers had pulled something out of his hat. Some misdirection, magic words and the wave of a hand. 

The figure in the photo was him, it had all of his features, but he couldn’t recognize it as himself. Long hair drooping on his shoulders, framing a shadowed and sunken face. The faint pastel mint color of his tunic made his skin look yellow and sick. He knew he had lost bulk, but the missing arm highlighted his skeletal physique. 

“That is what I look like now,” he used to be full of muscle and power and stature. 

“I mean, they say the camera adds ten pounds,” Rogers chuckled weakly, barely a smile, “But basically.”

“I am pathetic,” he couldn’t take his eyes off the being sitting trapped in that tiny device.. 

“What are you talking about?,” Rogers pulled the phone back, studying it again, “You scare the ever living hell out of me. You might have lost your arm but with your knowledge about Bucky, you can do so much more than kill me.”

“But I didn’t,” he could still hear Romanoff say it with that grin tugging on her lips, “Kill you.”

“No,” Rogers breathed, as if he heard it somewhere before too, “No, you didn’t.”


	12. Chapter 12

Natasha slid around his shoulders as he kept his stance firm on the lit up tile on the ground. He dodged and shielded them from the hundreds of tiny projectiles as he tried to not overstep. Again she blocked his view to shoot at one of the dispensers in the corner of the training room. 

“Natasha!” he hissed as he tried to spit her hair from his mouth and pull up the shield just in time. 

“Then stay still,” she snipped, but still twirling around him like he was another obstacle to overcome. 

He grunted as he flung his shield at one of the dispensers, grabbing Natasha around her waist and flung her up. She spun, shot her targets and came down hard on his shoulders. She managed to jump away and immediately triggered the buzzer of the training program. They had failed their objective. 

“What was that?” she heaved, wiping the sweat from her brow, “If you throw me up, you need to catch me too.”

Steve stared at her and dropped his shield at his feet, “I thought you’d figure it out yourself.”

He grabbed a towel from the side lines and then a basket to pick up the small projectiles. 

“Are you serious? Steve!” she walked up to him, “What’s with this passive-aggressive attitude you’re sporting? It doesn’t suit you.”

“This is why we train. To make mistakes so we don’t make them in the field.”

“Nonsense, you don’t make mistakes,” she scoffed. 

Steve didn’t dignify that with a response and swiped a few projectiles into the tray. 

“Stop that, it’s all automated,” she snatched the tray away and dropped it on the floor, “Listen I know Sam is your go-to guy when it comes to the difficult talks, but if you’re taking it with you on the field you’re making it my problem.”

“This is the training room, Natasha,” Steve kicked one of the projectiles across the room, “This is hardly a life or death situation. You know I won’t let it get that far.”

Natasha pursed her lips, glancing around the room and then dropped the hands from her hips. Carefully she placed a hand on his arm, pushing her hair out of her face, twirling it like she was uncertain, looking up at him with the softest expression. 

“Are you going to make me plead with you, Steve? I feel so wretched when you shut me out like this. Like you don’t even care.”

“That’s disgusting Natasha, cut it out,” he waved her away and stalked away to the locker room. 

“Then stop acting like an idiot,” Natasha snapped and followed him out, “This is about Barnes, isn’t it?”

“Bucky is dead.”

“And still you can only see him when you think about that sad puppet stuck in a prison cell.”

Steve dropped down on the wooden benches, “He’s a different person now, Natasha, I want to see that. But then he asked me if he wants me to be him and what would happen if he should take his name. What am I supposed to do with that? How am I supposed to react to that?”

“And you thought to struggle in the traditional Steve sense all by yourself, instead of asking the one person who’s spent so long being someone else she forgets who she’s supposed to be.” 

Steve sighed, drinking half-heartedly from his water bottle. Natasha sat down in front of him, stretching her legs out between his. She kept quiet for a moment. 

“Identity is difficult and muddled. You don’t need to be brainwashed for it. And it doesn’t always get confined to the person in question that gets mixed up in the identity troubles, be it lovers, friends or family. Sometimes they are overly nosey co-workers.”

She tapped his foot with hers and he forced out a smile. 

“But just because I am a different person now than I was when I grew up, doesn’t mean it’s not part of my identity. Even though it’s something I’d rather leave behind, I know it’s what I went through and Maria knows and Fury knows and Clint knows, it’ll always cast my life in a certain perspective. Color it in a certain light.”

“I’m not supposed to enforce it. I think me meeting him is doing exactly that. He needs to figure out for himself who he has become or wants to be or really is underneath those years of conditioning,” Steve gripped the empty bottle tight, “Sam and his therapist are always talking about how he needs to retain his sense of self.”

“And they are right, his autonomy is really important, but so is support. I wouldn’t be here without my family and their unconditional support.”

“Where is this coming from? You were so adamantly against him, before.”

“You’re part of my family, Steve,” she leaned back to stretch out, “And truth be told I don’t give a shit about him, but I care about you. What I mean to say is that everything surrounding this is fucked up. And however you handle the situation and handle him is going to be hard, whether that’s casting him aside as the treacherous ass he is, or taking care of him like family. And I want to be here for you through all that.”

Steve looked up at her, frown deeply entrenched. He wasn’t sure anymore what kind of mask she was wearing right now. In the past few years he had thought he had seen her without it, but now he wasn’t so sure. Maybe she only existed of masks. And if she took them off she’d just be as empty as Bucky was right now. 

“It’s okay for it to be complicated,” she looked straight back at him, “Because it is. Ask Clint.”

Then her face changed, like a flick of a switch. The mood lifted entirely from her face, the playful smirk back in place, the twinkle in her eye. 

She patted him on the head with a towel and walked towards the showers, “Now you just need to leave all this complicated stuff off the training room floor,” she kicked her sneakers off along with her shirt, “And we’ll be golden.”

Steve watched her disappear around the corner and heard the shower turn on. 

“Nat?” he got up when he got no reply, “Natasha, this is the men's locker rooms.”

⁂

The hot intel had turned cold. Their mission quickly turned into a bust. Hydra scrambling and splintering further into nooks and crannies. Steve walked through the empty corridors of the compound, there was nothing left but empty rooms and a faint smell of bleach. Even that had had time to fade away into the gathering dust. 

Natasha was calling it in through the coms, she didn’t look or sound agitated, but Steve liked to think he saw a tension in her back. That all this running around after Hydra while it was desperate with the minute was getting to her too. 

He left her to it and wandered back, just in case they missed something crucial. Not that the clean-up crew wouldn’t catch it, but he liked to make sure when he could. Hydra had done a good job this time, wrapping up and moving their operation elsewhere. Steve tried not to think about how this meant the Winter Soldier’s info started to get out of date.

Sam and Clint stood side to side in the more sinister cellblock of the building, a floor down. Rows of small windowless rooms, bolt locks on one side of the door, scratches and dents on the other. There was no visible blood, but Steve could still taste a lingering metallic hint in the air. 

“Holes in the wall, see, where they bolted in the chains,” Clint pointed with one of his arrows, “No sewage, but a drain in the center for easy cleaning. They could do that in one go. Easy, like my two-in-one shower gel.”

“Does this beat living on the street?” Sam shook his head, “Where do they keep finding these volunteers?”

Clint shrugged, “Only needs to look voluntary on the paperwork and considering what a good job they did with Steve’s bud, they clearly figured out a way to be convincing.”

Before Steve had the chance to announce his presence Sam spotted him. He flicked Clint on the arm, as if they were caught with their hand in the cookie jar. 

“Did you check with your contacts at the center?” Steve simply asked. 

“They’re keeping an eye out, but they have enough on their plate,” Sam turned back to the cell room, “Still plenty of homeless after the alien destruction, who’s going to notice a few missing.”

“This is still a few?” Steve walked down along the row of cells. 

“Relatively.”

Steve stepped into the closet-like cell. Hardly one by one meter, too small to lie down and stretch out if that was possible with chains holding one down. Bucky had lived like this, huddled in a corner before they dragged him out again for another torturous procedure. Heck, Shield held him similarly only months ago. 

“All these people deserve better,” Sam placed a hand on his shoulder, reading his mind, “But we can’t save them all.”

“Let’s try our hardest for the ones we can,” Steve took a deep breath, forcing it back out through his nose. 

Sam clapped him on the shoulder again, “Let’s get out of here first though.”

Steve listened to the footsteps retreating, echoing along the empty building. Natasha called them through the coms, their pick-up would arrive shortly. It hadn’t escaped his attention that Clint stayed, uncharastically silent. 

He couldn’t help but wonder if Natasha had told Clint about their conversation. About Bucky stuck in his cell with his identity crisis. About the many masks they wear. 

“I could really use a milkshake right about now,” Clint sighed dramatically, tapping the arrow head to his lips, “Aren’t you hungry, Cap?”

“I’m always hungry.”

“I know a great little joint up north of here, if you don’t mind missing the bus,” Clint slotted the arrow back in his quiver. 

“We’re in the middle of nowhere Virginia, how do you know a joint up north?” Steve snorted as they walked back up to the ground floor. 

“I’ve been around,” Clint just shrugged. 

Natasha shrugged them off as they announced their plans. Sam didn’t try as hard to hide his emotions and showed a weird combination of worry and approval. Slapping Steve on the back again before he snuck off to sit in the cockpit. It made Steve wonder what he must think of him and just as quickly brushed the thought away. He deemed himself lucky to have so many friends that cared. 

They took a while to change on the jet. Natasha nagging them over the coms to hurry up so she could take off. 

“I have a date of my own with the squash court and Tony’s rooftop hot tub afterwards.”

“You play squash together?” Steve asked Clint as they made their way towards the small town a mile or two away. 

“It’s more her thing,” Clint grinned, sticking his hands deep in his pockets, “The force she puts behind that little ball… You’d think she’s got something bothering her.”

“I thought she did ballet,” Steve could imagine how ferocious she would be with just a racket, a rubber ball and a closed off room. 

“That too, it’s a different mood you know. Squash is fun for her,” Clint left the implication unspoken, “Like I keep up with the tricks of gymnastics, but I’d rather play a little basketball with the boys down the street. They might kick my ass, but it’s just more fun, ya know.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever played.”

Steve knew it from before, it was all the rage when he was growing up. But Bucky played baseball and later moved on to boxing. So his exposure had been limited. 

“What sports have you played?” Clint breathed more warm air between his fingers and sunk deeper into his jacket, “Weren’t you just a little dude with asthma before the war?”

“Yeah, something like that,” Steve huffed, “Buck taught me how to box a bit, but any other sport related activities were pretty much hell for me.”

“Maybe you should give it another shot, for fun.”

“Wouldn’t be much fun for the other team if I cast a ball in their face hard enough to break it.”

“That happens anyway,” Clint laughed, “And I’m sure you’re able to keep your muscles in check. You’re doing a pretty good job most of the time.”

“Yeah,” Steve pressed out a smile as he looked at the welcome sign for the town. Population 6000. Followed by another field full of winter wheat, though it still looked pretty barren to him. 

⁂

After their bust mission they had several more flukes. Either Hydra had already moved on without a trace or the building had been burned to the ground, seized my local police or raided and vandalized by youth and neighborhood gangs. 

Maria tried to keep her confidence unwavering, telling them that this time their intel would check out. Either having seen consistent activity or reports of armed guards walking about. They were gathered in one of Stark's meeting rooms for another debrief. This time Maria sank down in the big chairs and flung her feet on the expensive table. 

“Can someone get me a large cappuccino and a thick slice of banana bread,” she pushed her hands against her face, “Please.”

For a moment everyone looked at each other, but when Steve moved to get up Jarvis made himself known. 

“On its way, Agent Hill,” Jarvis said, “A selection will be brought up for everyone.”

“Thank you, Jarvis,” Maria sighed, pushed her hands back in her lap but didn’t drop her feet. 

“Hydra seems to be so broken up that it’s getting difficult to find them,” Natasha tapped on her tablet to bring up an activity map on the big screen, “This is a good thing, but it means they are burrowing real deep right now and keeping it all tight right now. If we want to catch them , we’ll need to go the extra mile. This is the final stretch.”

“Natasha,” Maria looked at her as she rolled her head on the headrest, “If you start talking about going into deep cover again, let me remind you that your face is all over the internet. Have a donut and let’s sit for a moment.”

“I could do it,” Sam pointed out, feigning nonchalance, “Go undercover. Besides that hardly anyone knows who I am, I don’t expect those white middle-aged men to distinguish a black man if his life depended on it.”

“Let’s have a cup first,” Maria suggested with a deeper sigh, “Sleep on that for a night or twenty, first.”

“Infiltrating an neo-nazi organisation as a black man can be very straining, Sam,” Natasha pursed her lips and dropped her head, “Your skills are too vital to be missed here for any stretch of time.”

Sam glared at her for a long moment, “You’re saying I can’t handle it?”

“You can handle it, obviously, I’m saying we need your talents here,” Natasha pulled a strand of hair out of her ponytail and twirled it between her fingers, “And besides, Steve would miss you.”

“Don’t you dare bring me into this,” Steve leaned as far back into his chair as he could.

A knock on the door rattled the room. Snapping everyone out of it. The tension now visible for what it was, a swell of frustration and futility. 

“Coffee!” Clint cheered and welcomed a Stark-intern in who looked a bit flustered to push in the cart filled with baked goods and various cups of coffee and tea. 

Clint made sure to give Maria her precious cappuccino and banana bread first and then set a jam filled donut down in front of Natasha. Her shoulders immediately drooped. Sam must’ve noticed the change in mood too and started stuffing himself with banana bread himself. Steve looked down at his cup of coffee and waited until the intern left with the cart. 

“Is this because of Bucky?” he asked, making sure he made eye contact with Maria. 

She grabbed a napkin, dotted her lips and then picked up her coffee. He waited. 

“I want to say no, but I can’t,” she told him with a grim smile, “His intel lined up and was solid at first, the first few raids were fruitful. Enough time has passed that his own information has gotten out of date. Especially considering Hydra’s been on high alert. It’s possible that he’s getting the details switched up in his head, you’ve read the reports. Maybe he just doesn’t know any more, but doesn’t want us to think he’s useless.”

She took another sip. 

“But?” he pressed, trying hard not to think of the blank look in Bucky’s eyes. 

“But I cannot with full certainty say he is not playing another long con,” she glanced outside for a moment where the hard rain beat down on the windows, but couldn’t be heard, “If it helps, this will change nothing of his situation. For better or for worse.”

“Alright,” he pulled up his own tablet, clenching his teeth, “Any more updates on the other prisoners?”

“On their intel or their wellbeing?” Maria asked with a smirk. 

Steve wasn’t sure he appreciated it, but noticed Sam snorting at the joke, trying hard to hide his smile. Maria quickly waved it off, picking at her banana bread.

“Not much change,” Maria continued, “They were prisoners, so their knowledge of any actual Hydra operations is limited by definition. They were promised a lot of bullshit and got metal limbs and mind altering drugs in return. Most were basically experiments, others were being trained as soldiers. They’re traumatized for life.”

“And support will be nonexistent if their participation was voluntary and they were marginalized people in any case,” Sam added, “I’ve already spoken to Pepper about some sort of fund or program to be set-up to get them rehabilitated, but there’s a lot of bureaucracy.”

“Can I help?” Steve felt his stomach churn, “I have a lot of back-pay.”

“In this case, money is not the answer,” Sam wiped his fingers on a tissue, “You can talk to Pepper for any ideas on how to increase impact and get this moving along. Benefits, galas, fundraisers.”

“All the fun stuff,” Clint commented, spewed powders sugar all over the table, “Fuck!”

“Clint, please, not in public,” Natasha tossed him some napkins the moment he knocked over his coffee cup. 

Maria groaned again, “I’m calling this meeting adjourned,” she swiveled in her chair, calling up YouTube to start another playlist of funny cat videos. 

Sam turned back to Steve, pushing the tablet in his hands away, “You’re still coming with for Thanksgiving, right? You don’t want to disappoint my momma here.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Steve hoped the thick sense of domesticity and a mountain of homemade food could brighten his spirits. 

Sam grinned and shoved a pastry his way, “Try this, so you can tell my momma hers is better than Starks.”

Steve had no problem indulging Sam with that request. 

⁂

They had settled in the living room after dinner. Aliyah and Jiwoo were preparing the coffee in the kitchen, bickering softly amongst themselves. The kids were settled in with reruns of Friends. Sam helped his mother Maddie back in her recliner, covering her lap with a blanket and offering her embroidery project and several swatches of colored thread. 

“Now I see you looking, Steve, but none of that,” she waggled her needle and thread in his direction while Sam set her feet up the stool, “A woman can slip on the ice, prepare a delicious meal for her family without any of that pity I’m seeing here. We talked about this.”

“Just a lot of admiration, ma’am,” he grinned as he tried to relax on the couch, “You and your family sure have a way of making a guy feel part of it all.”

“You proud of those mashed potatoes she ordered you to make,” Sam elbowed him in the ribs, “That’s the lowest their Steve, there wasn’t anything else she trusted you with.”

“I’ll do myself a favor and still take it as a compliment,” Steve huffed a laugh, “You know I’ve been trying.”

“Still, grilled cheese sandwiches don’t count as cooking,” Sam stuck his nose in the air, “It doesn't matter how many fancy cheeses you try.”

“Now, now, we all gotta start somewhere,” Maddie looked content as she kept stitching, “I only started embroidery a year or two ago, never too late to pick up a hobby. And everything is so easy now, with the internet.”

“Soon we’re going to have to set up an online store for her, our house is already full of all the creations she has made,” Aliyah came in with a tray. 

“None of that,” Maddie berated after mumbling a thank-you for the coffee, “I’m done with all the pressure to succeed or to be profitable. No one asked you to hang those up.”

“They are just all so wonderful,” Jiwoo added as he handed out the pumpkin pie to the kids first, “It would be a waste to just store them in a box.”

Maddie shrugged again, “You can do as you like, I’ll just be creating more of them.”

“So you made these?” Steve picked up one of the throw pillows they had set aside on the backrest. 

The front showed a simple composition of a fat robin perched on a pine twig. The colors striking but not very detailed. 

“That’s right,” Maddie smiled as she laid her work on her lap for a moment, “The pillows needed a new sleeve, figured I might as well put some of my own work on it. As you know, I have so many lying around we’re basically all drowning in it.”

“It’s lovely,” Steve traced the stitches, some of them not as even as they could be.

He couldn’t help but notice that the imperfection of the work made it lovely. Just like the food, just like the coffee and somehow even the company. The kids sometimes screamed ear piercingly loud, Aliyah and Jiwoo did their best but hadn’t managed to not treat him like a minor celebrity yet, Sam and Maddie bickering quarreling over the food. Sometimes it was uncomfortable and awkward. It wasn’t perfect, but it didn’t need to be for there to be satisfaction and warmth. 

He realized he felt jealous. That was until Sam started talking about Steve’s own creative endeavors. 

“Yep, he’s a real artist, paints and everything, but he never let’s me see anything he makes.”

“Sam, don’t,” Steve hissed pressing his fingers tight in his hand.

Sam stuffed himself with pie before he continued, “They don’t really talk about that in the history books, right? Who Steve was before. Guess we’re lucky now to find out ourselves.”

“Oh? I never heard of this,” Maddie looked expectantly and forced Steve to smile, “Did you have a career as an artist back in the day, Steve?”

“You’d think something would’ve been left behind,” Sam scraped the last pieces of pie of his plate, “An advertorial or some sort of shop signage. How many sketchbooks were trashed before they realized they had thrown an authentic Steve Rogers original away. We’ll just have to wait and see what he’s producing now, if only he’d show me.”

“Sam!” Steve spat a little more forcefully. 

It got everyone’s attention along with Sam who gave the most affronted look. He shook his head minutely. 

“Right,” Sam got up and collected the empty plates. 

The dessert forks rattled, the porcelain clattering as he dumped them in the dishwasher. 

Of course, now he felt bad for not keeping the peace. He could’ve lied, he could’ve talked about his past, the few commissions he did for the local newspaper or music venue, just smile and nod. 

“He just had a bit too much to drink,” Aliyah gave him as an excuse, laying a hand on her husband’s knee, “Don’t take it personal.”

“And don’t feel embarrassed for your art,” Maddie picked up her needle and thread again, “There’s nothing wrong with keeping it all to yourself. It’s yours to do with as you please. Show, sell or stuff it in a box. Tear it up or burn it. I know I feel like it sometimes.”

“Momma!” Aliyah gasped with a laugh, “You don’t mean that. Your work is beautiful, we appreciate each and everyone.”

Maddie shrugged and looked at Steve instead. To make sure he got the message. Steve got the message. The message being he hadn’t been the friend that Sam deserved and he sure as hell needed to step up and set things straight. 

⁂

Playing squash wasn’t really his thing, Steve realized. But Sam appeared to be quite into it so he figured he wouldn’t mind making this a weekly thing. Bonus points for watching Sam stumble all over the place to catch the ball as he slammed it into another impossible corner. This time Sam missed the ball, threw up his hands and wiped his face on his already drenched shirt. 

“Alright, I’m done,” he tried to take a deep breath but kept panting, “This is just running along the mall all over again.”

“I’ll go easier on you next time,” Steve grinned and walked with him to the locker rooms, “Don’t forget the ball, there, right at your feet..”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Sam barely lifted his racket to wave at him. 

Steve gathered their water bottles and closed the door of the small room behind him. He wasn’t quite done at the gym yet, still burning with energy he wanted to waste before they had another movie night tonight. But he wouldn’t mind a break, grab another protein drink with Sam or a cup of coffee if he felt up for it. 

When he entered the locker room Sam sat on the wooden bench, close to where Natasha sat down that time. He looked distressed and for a split second Steve wondered what made these locker rooms so inviting for heart to hearts. He’d have to talk to Tony about that. Or Pepper. 

“Steve sit down for a moment,” Sam pointed to the bench next to him, letting his arm drop again. 

“Is this going to be another sermon? Take a break, Sam, I have that therapist for that now,” Steve didn’t sit down and crossed his arms. 

“No, Steve,” Sam sighed, “Though no lack of want from my part because I’m not even sure you’re actually seeing her or just bottle that up too. I need to tell you something about our mutual friend.”

“Natasha?” Steve decided to act dumb just because he was feeling extra petty now. 

Sam gave him a sharp look, “He named himself James.” 

It was like crashing back into the black stone cold ocean. The console of the cockpit slamming hard into his ribs, ice and shards of glass crashing into his face. The sudden overwhelming pressure. No feeling, no sound. Just the freezing ocean water dragging him down into the deep. Cold tendrils squeezing his throat, then his heart. 

He didn’t black out this time. Just blinked back at Sam. 

“He probably would’ve told you himself, but you haven’t gone by anymore.”

Steve clapped his teeth shut, desperately looking around for that bottle of water in his hand, “Yeah, I…”

“Hey, no, don’t mind that now, we’re not talking about you for a change,” Sam didn’t look kind as he said it, “But I figured you wanted to know anyhow.”

“Yeah, that’s,” Steve swallowed the clump in his throat and lifted the water bottle, then thought better of drinking, “That’s fair.”

He sat down now, next to Sam, and for a while they just kept the silence. He could still hear the other gym goers outside the door, the water rattling in the pipes, a faint humm of the tl lighting. It all sounded far away, fake somehow. Sounds from a tv show playing in someone else's living room.

“So it’s,” Steve wasn’t really sure how to ask it, “It’s just James? Or…”

“Yeah, that was my first thought too,” Sam chuckled weakly, “And eh, when I very tactfully managed to ask he seemed taken aback. He was reading a book. Children of Men by P. D. James, so who’s to say.”

Steve let out the breath he was holding, “That’s…” he wasn’t even sure what to say, “Fuck.”

“Yeap,” Sam agreed, squished his own water bottle and drank heavily, “He asked about you too.”

At that Steve frowned, staring at his own sneakers, “I wasn’t sure…”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Steve,” Sam shook his head, “Really, this is about that. I’m just telling you, you know. He has a name now. And it’s not Bucky.”

Sam got up and peeled his sweaty shirt off his back, “I’m gonna hit the showers now. I’ll see you at the movie night tonight?”

Steve didn’t know what his face was doing when he looked up, but Sam’s had pity written all over it. He didn’t act on it though, just grabbed his towel and moved to the showers. 

It was New Years soon. Steve had tried to keep his days filled, asking more from Maria to do and more from his friends to keep his mind going places. And despite the dip in Hydra activity, there had been plenty to do for him. Pepper was absolutely thrilled to get him into a tux for an onslaught of Holiday related charity events and showcases. Though it felt good to be up and doing something, he had yet to feel any satisfaction over the work. Despite what Pepper had told him about all the good he was doing, he still saw the abundance of homeless people on the street, the sick children at the hospital, the prisoners at the Shield detention center. 

When he was younger he had felt more capable of making a difference in the world, even if it was just one incident at a time. It was clearcut, he did the best he could within his own limitations. Now everything was out of his hands. He had no limitations. A bank account with more money than he ever thought possible and a body that borderlined on invincible. Problems aplenty but no way of helping. 

He grabbed his phone from his gym bag tucked underneath the bench, opening the picture app. He had taken more photos. Of Natasha and Clint together on the couch, Sam’s family during thanksgiving. Tony demonstrating one of his inventions in the parking lot. A feeble attempt of running away from the thing that hurt him, but he hadn’t dared to delete it. 

The man in the picture had stared straight at the camera, coiled tight and confrontational. Apprehensive but ready for anything. The man he could hardly look in the eye while he yammered on about candy. The man called himself James. 

“You’re wallowing, aren’t you,” Sam had managed to sneak up on him somehow, “Come on, bro, let’s get lunch.”

“I just don’t know how to tackle this,” Steve pushed his phone away. 

“I know, that’s why you have a therapist dude, so you can talk to her about it,” Sam pulled a hoodie over his head, “Come on, are you gonna take a shower, or not?” 

“Right,” Steve finally got off the bench and sped to the showers.


	13. Chapter 13

James pushed his routine further. More circles around the room, more sit ups, more planking. Add jumping jacks and jump squats. He wondered if James liked the exercise, or if this persona was more about the books Wilson had provided him. Shield didn’t seem to care, but they hadn’t come by in a while and he couldn’t help but wonder if his weak physique had something to do with it. 

Food had been going alright, for once. There were generally less disturbances in his day to constitute a panic attack. So there was less reason for his body to throw it all up in the toilet. Ghufran’s visiting schedule was consistent enough to support his time frame. And he could make sure not to eat before her visits. It meant skipping a meal, but it was more favorable than wasting it and damaging his teeth in the process. 

Sleep on the other hand had proved to become more difficult now that the lights went dim. Instead of his usual twenty minute stints he had fallen down in dreams that left him screaming and drenched in sweat. Other times he found himself on the other side of the room. He’d write it off as losing more time, if he didn’t remember falling asleep beforehand. 

There was an easy fix for it. It meant he slept during the day and did his exercises in the dark. If it still proved problematic he could bring it up with Ghufran whenever she asked about his problems. 

She seemed to be gradually pleased with his progression. He noticed that she smiled when he spoke without prompting and announced his observed status or told her about the books he’d been reading. Unlike Rogers, she didn’t ask if he liked them, she asked what he had learned or what happened in the story. Sometimes she would ask about the motivations of the characters or if he could identify the emotions described. He could, of course, the spy was very proficient at emotions, that didn’t mean they were felt by James, himself. 

At one point he asked if he wanted her to display more emotions. If he could pick a name, he could come up with an arbitrary set of likes and dislikes, or pick some from the books. As with everything, she took a moment to formulate her answer and eventually made it clear that the emotions needed to be felt, not acted. ‘Fake it until you make it’ had merit, but in his case would lead away from their goal of finding out what kind of emotions James felt. 

“For all intents and purposes, apathy is a valid state of mind and a logical outcome of the torture and abuse you have endured. So if that’s what you’re feeling right now, that’s what you’re feeling.”

James had left it at that. Both to not complicate things further and to settle the panic simmering in his stomach. Overall he felt like he was succeeding at this assessment which might lead to actual assignments in the future. 

For now he worked on getting the control over his body back. The light had already been out for a good few hours when he started on his routine. He was still within his warm up of walking circles when the light jumped back on. 

For a moment he thought he must have lost time again, but an alarm light turned on as well, flickering in the corridor outside the thick glass. He couldn’t hear it really, but the harsh ringing sound wasn’t hard to imagine. Just as fast all the lights went off again. Perhaps he had fallen asleep after all and this was another dream. 

His hand started cramping up and the vertigo made it even more difficult to see what was going on outside. He looked at the corners of the room. The lights of the video cameras were off. Maybe it was a test. James decided to keep on walking. Eyes fixed in front of his feet, the emergency light from outside swirling his and other shadows around him. 

An explosion went off somewhere in the complex, the boom dulled by the thick soundproof walls, making the floor tremble. The door clicked. A sound he never heard, but was very aware of. James stopped walking and knelt down on the floor in the middle of the room. All he had to do was wait.

First he saw guards running through the corridor, then there were people who were definitely not guards. All ignored him. Finally a bulky figure strolled down towards his cell, a heavy flashlight mounted on the shoulder, shining in his face. The speakers cracked and came to life. Heavy footsteps followed by a heady chuckle. 

“Well now, lookie here. How the mighty have fallen.” 

He knew Rumlow, having fought against and with him a few times, but not well. The man never specifically rose out between all the other soldiers he worked with at Hydra. It appeared now he fancied himself a better role and James considered it wise to stay silent and meek. 

Rumlow was in a similar suit that he wore during his fight with Captain America at one of the Hydra facilities. The metal gleamed red in the emergency lights, sleeker and more streamlined. Some parts a shell, others wired into his own body. An improvement to better the human race. 

“No need to get up,” Rumlow lifted his mechanical hands even when James made no indication of the sort, “I’m not here for you. Hydra has no use for you anymore.”

Even though he had known it, with the state he was in, it set him off balance. He couldn’t help but look up at Rumlow grinning with all his teeth. He pressed his hand tighter behind his back, to make sure the man didn’t see him swerve. 

“Sadly for the both of us,” Rumlow put on an impressive pout, “I can’t kill you either. Don’t want to evoke the wrath of mister self-righteous more so than usual.”

Shrugging didn’t really work with the suit, but it didn’t stop him from trying. Then he leaned forward, the metal screeching on the glass as he pressed upon it. With his gun he tapped on the glass. 

“So why don’t you do us a favor and kill yourself some moments down the line,” Rumlow spat, the light on his shoulder casting his face in horrid shadows, “Be dramatic about it. Jump down a tall cliff. Really rub it in. You were always known for being effective, so let’s give that one final hurrah!”

Rumlow gave two more taps on the glass, and walked off. The alarm kept wailing over the speaker, lights flashing. Somewhere people shouted, there was gunfire, another explosion. James closed his eyes, for just a few seconds. The remnant opened them again, vigilant. He was always very good at waiting. 

⁂

It took a long time for someone to walk up to him. First they got the power back on. Then they made sure to lock the door again. Food didn’t come and the water in the toilet gurgled. First he spotted wounded guards helping each other towards the exit. Then came the cavalry. Men and women heavily armed scouting the area. They spotted him, communicated his existence to the higher ups and walked on. He kept his eyes peeled for the red, white and blue outfit or any of the other Avengers, but none ever showed. 

Eventually it was Hill accompanied by a band of her personal guard that walked up to the glass. 

“I would say it’s commendable you’re still here, but then I have sources telling me you came into contact with one of the insurgency's leaders.”

He wasn’t sure if he should tell her what happened. This wasn’t Ghufran and she hadn’t asked him a question. 

“We’ll be moving you to a new secure location,” Hill waved her hand to someone on the side, “You have your friends to thank for this.”

They gassed him and he made sure to lay down before he bumped his head on the floor. 

He expected to wake up in chains. A similar location where they held the spy after the Helicarrier crashed. Restrained so he couldn’t follow up on Rumlows order, submitted to more interrogation to determine whether Rumlow hadn’t given him anything else. 

He woke up in a bed, there were soft linens and a thick duvet. Pillows filled with down and room enough for him to stretch. He didn’t. He sat up and cataloged everything in the room. Two doors, no windows, vents small enough to only fit his hand and cameras so advanced he wasn’t sure if it wasn’t just a speck in the corner. 

Besides the bed, there was one chair and table and a built-in closet. One door led to a bathroom, toilet, sink and shower. 

He knew where he was before Jarvis spoke from the near invisible speakers. 

“Good morning James. I’ve informed Agent Hill of your awakening and she will be here shortly.”

He knelt back down on the floor. There were no mirrors in the room, or screens from which she would speak from. If she were to come in, kneeling might show her his willingness to stay submissive and nonthreatening. With that, he pressed his shaking hand on his head. His other shoulder followed, the ghost of his arm playing along. 

Maybe he had passed their test when Rumlow showed up. Maybe his relocation to the Stark Tower meant they would deploy him on missions, make him useful again.

The door opened and his stomach swirled. He hadn’t eaten in quite a while, so nothing came up, but he fisted his hair between his fingers, just not to lose it. It would be a terrible impression to make. 

“You get such a nice room and don’t even use the chair provided?” Hill hardly stepped in the room herself, just to keep her distance, “Whatever you prefer, but don’t stay on the floor on my account.”

He looked up at her and glanced at the simple wooden chair. It sounded like an order to him so he sat down on it. 

“You go by James now, is that correct?” Hill kept him well within her sight, observing every move he made. 

“Yes,” he made sure to keep as still as possible, clenching the tremble in his hand down.

“As you might’ve surmised, Hydra broke into the Raft but left you there. As such we brought you to the Avengers Tower, for the time being. This is not something to get used to. Rules will be the same. Meals two times a day and lights out between twelve and six. Jarvis will be monitoring you and we’ll be alerted to any funny business. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“Also no books. Stark doesn’t believe in them or something, but he promised to show you a movie once per day.”

She crossed her arms and glanced around the room with a careful frown, making sure not to lose sight of the real threat.

“I’m very busy, so I can’t go into it much now, but would you like to make any statements about a Hydra operative giving you a little visit during the break in?”

“It was Rumlow,” he was sure she knew, but wanted to make sure they were on the same page, “He told me Hydra had no use for me any longer and ordered me to eliminate myself after an unspecified time frame.”

Hill didn’t show any reaction to that, she must have known as well, “Good thing Jarvis is here to keep a lookout for that as well.”

She made a motion towards the door and it opened, “Food will be here momentarily. We’ll talk later.”

When she left he made a beeline to the toilet and spent a few moments throwing up absolutely nothing. Since the stale sweat of fear still clung to his tunic he took a shower. He couldn’t appreciate how warm the water was compared to the prison cell, or how the showergel smelled like lavender and aloe vera. The built-in cabinet provided him with another tunic. Still a one-piece with a zipper, but now just as soft as the sheets on the bed. He told himself not to linger on it as he tucked the empty sleeve in on itself.

Hill had said it was temporary, better not to get used to privileges that could disappear at a moment's notice. He sat down on the chair Hill had told him to sit on. Not the bed. Trying hard to keep his breathing under control. He needed to be calm for dinner. He needed to settle his panic so as not to waste food and get enough nutrients to support his body and help it get stronger. 

Briefly he wondered if Ghufran would continue to visit him here, but deemed it too likely she died during the raid. 

He pushed it firmly out of his mind as the food arrived through a slot in the wall. 

A few days later Hill came back asking the same questions and more to which he did not have the answer to. She appeared short-fused and stressed. No mind games or long interrogation sessions. No Romanoff with her pictures of Rogers to torture him with. No Rogers either. Since he stayed at the tower now, he had expected a visit from Wilson, perhaps with books, if it was only to read to him. The movies projected on the far side of the wall were flashy and obnoxious. He also had no power over the volume or speed at which it played. Still, there was nothing else to occupy his time with so he did his best to watch them. But Wilson didn’t come. 

Instead Barton appeared one afternoon with two cups of coffee, a pizza and an easy smile. 

“Yo, how’ve you been?”

James stood up but didn’t answer and he watched as Barton pulled up the table so it could be reached from the bed. 

“Sit down, dude, this is your space I’m invading,” Barton propped one of the pillows up, bounced on the bed and immediately groaned, “Pooping balls, that hurt.”

James gripped the wooden chair and tried to keep his hand from trembling. If his feeble attempt at infiltrating his and Romanoff’s home hadn’t raised some questions, blowing his cover must have shed it in a certain light that was less than favorable. 

“I checked with Jarvis about your eating habits,” Barton motioned to the food on the table, “Hence the pizza, hope you like pepperoni. Jarvis, what are we watching today?”

“Mister Stark has queued up Transformers: Age of Extinction, Clint,” Jarvis announced as level as always, “Would you like to change the movie?”

“Fuck yes,” Barton flipped open the box, “Tony and his robots. Not a romantic bone in his body. Let’s watch The Notebook.”

“Absolutely, Clint,” Jarvis started the projector. 

“Pause it. Just a moment,” Barton mumbled then turned back to James, “You okay there? You don’t wanna watch a movie? We can do something else. I mean, I nearly brought the dummy bows. But then I remembered they took your arm, so that would’ve been a shitty move.”

“No,” James said quickly, before something burst in his chest. 

“You don’t want to watch the movie?” Barton asked, already shoving a slice of pizza in his mouth, “It’s really good, I promise.”

“No, let’s watch the movie,” James used his grip on the chair to pull it backwards and sit down on it. 

Barton didn’t seem to tell him to do otherwise, he just told Jarvis to resume the movie and motioned to the food again, pushing the cup of coffee in his direction. 

James picked up the coffee and focused on holding it steady. The movie had already started and he was supposed to focus on that too. He thought he was doing good for a while. An old man telling a story, two characters falling in love, breaking apart, then a war. But there was something about the smell of the coffee and the sounds coming through the speakers that pulled him back and away. 

When he came to he was lying in bed and it was dark. The smell of coffee and pizza still lingered, but he couldn’t remember eating it. Barton had likely long gone. And if Ghufran ever came back and asked him what this movie was about he wouldn’t be able to tell her. 

For a short moment he pressed his eyes closed. Then, instead of lying there, he got up and started on his routine.

⁂

A few days passed and even with the set day and night system, they blurred into each other. With his nail he carved small notches on the side of the table to keep track of days passing, just in case. A short scratch for no visitors and a dash for contact. There weren’t a lot of dashes. 

Ghufran had talked about routine and how to analyse moments of the day where he felt most incapacitated. He tried to keep up with what she had given him, but it proved more difficult than he had thought without her coming around every other day. He spent his days on the bed, on top of the covers, listening to any sounds he might pick up, any change in light. Sometimes he fell asleep for longer than he wanted, waking up with his heart beating in his throat. Even with the light on. 

Jarvis had started making his presence known with a soft crescendo of piano notes. Whether it was part of some sort of conditioning or something else, stayed unclear. He tensed every time the first note struck, gripping tight into the duvet. But he made sure to sit upright before the last tone faded out. 

“James, Sam Wilson has requested to be connected through video call, would you like to be connected?”

“Yes,” James quickly sat down in the chair and nearly brushed his hand through his hair. 

He immediately pushed it down against the table. Where Wilson could see it. Not a threat. 

Wilson appeared on screen, smiling brightly even through the visible split lip and bruising on his face. 

“James! It’s so good to see you. How are you?” Wilson had to raise his voice over the noise in the background. 

James couldn’t figure out who was talking around them and Wilson had taken extra care to show as little of his surroundings as possible. The loud humming in the background and the crackle through the speaker was very likely one of Shield’s jets. 

“I am okay,” James knew that Wilson accepted that answer over anything else he had offered, even if it didn’t mean anything, “I have been relocated.”

“Yes! Geez, what a mess,” Wilson shook his head and then pushed someone away offscreen, “Tell me how that went for you.”

It was a pointless exercise. If Wilson wasn’t actually there when it happened, Hill would’ve filled him in on the extreme details. But for the sake of small talk he had accepted it. He repeated what he had told Hill, now a well rehearsed line. His fingers tapping listlessly on the wood. 

“So you’re at the Tower now,” Wilson nodded as if it was new information, “They better be treating you well because we’re all on our way.”

James couldn’t help but notice the plural pronoun there. Barton’s visit had proved to be straining, he’d have to be better when the rest of the Avengers showed up. At least he had time to prepare. 

“Are you okay with receiving visitors, or you rather talk like this?” Wilson motioned between himself and the screen.

James stared at his hand on the table and squeezed it into a fist. The question was useless. They could do whatever they felt was necessary, whether that was being in the same room as him or conversing over video call. Wilson might not want to be in the same room as him, he was a threat and Barton’s visit showed no great benefit. But video calling might not be up to standards. The information to be gathered from these check-ups were limited at best. 

Wilson was still looking at him expectantly. 

“Both are acceptable,” he offered, but it felt like failure. 

“Alright,” Wilson showed no sign of disappointment, “How about I come by in a day or two and afterwards you can tell me which one you think is best.”

“Understood.”

The assignment made his vision blur and his stomach roll. Good he was sitting down already. 

“How’s your reading coming along?” Wilson continued, but immediately got distracted by someone off screen, “It’s none of your business, Tony, what are you yapping about?”

The microphone didn’t pick up on what Stark said, but it certainly put Wilson in a bad mood.

“Are you kidding me, Stark,” Wilson covered the camera with his hand but it didn’t do anything for the mic, “This is about giving the man some agency, not some pointless debate whether the movie is better than the book.”

James took a very quiet very deep breath in and let it out as slowly as he could. Whenever officers argued amongst themselves they took it out on him, not on each other. Becoming invisible was the best tactic at avoiding unnecessary injury. 

“Does he know that? Do you think Maria gave him a run down of Jarvis’s functionality and a welcome package to boot? He doesn’t have anything, he doesn’t even know how to want anything. No, you know what- no no of course I’m going to explain it to him right now.”

Wilson uncovered the camera, his scowl miraculously turning into a gentle smile, “Hey, you still with me?”

“Yes,” James scanned the area around Wilson for any sign of Stark or anyone else. 

“So, yeah,” Wilson took a deep breath in, placed his hand in his hair and rubbed it for a second, “So Tony, he was in a bit of a hurry when he set up those movies for you to watch… Yeah okay that doesn’t really matter. Jarvis, the disembodied, all-seeing AI does more than keep track of you. If you want to watch a movie or if you want to not watch a movie, just ask him. You can just start with ‘Jarvis, please start the movie… euhm Shrek’, for example and he’ll do that. No questions asked, no matter what time of day. Or if you want to listen to any books, like the ones you’ve read, you can do that too.”

Wilson looked at him as if he was searching for something and didn’t get it. James waited, there had been no question asked. 

“You- You understand?” Wilson asked, his smile was hesitant now. 

“Holy smokes, he’s not an idiot,” Stark was closer to the mic now, but still off screen. 

James made sure to show his own face, “Yes.”

“Great, then I’ll see you in two days. It’s still a long way to New York and boy do I need a shower. See you soon.”

This time Wilson didn’t wait for an answer and shut off the connection. Leaving James sitting in the chair, staring at the wall, the room a void around him. For a few moments he tried to listen to any indication of Jarvis. A murmur, a whisper, a breath. Nothing surpassed the slamming reverberation of his heart in his chest. 

Carefully he slid off the chair and moved back to the bed. 

He took another few deep breaths, “Jarvis, please start the movie The Public Enemy.”

Wilson followed through on his words and came through the door two days carrying a stack of books he immediately placed in the nearly empty cupboard. 

“A step at a time, ain’t that right,” he huffed, putting his hands on his hips and looking awfully proud of it, “So Maria absolutely wanted me to tell you that if you rip pages out for some reason she’ll take them all away again. So try not to do that.”

“Understood,” James had stood up from his place on the bed, now blocked Wilson’s route to the chair and the door. 

“So you’ve been entertaining yourself with some movies, huh?” he motioned to the screen where “The Invisible Ray” stood paused, “Is this from the thirties? I don’t recognize it.”

“Yes,” James backed off into the corner, “Jarvis, please turn off the movie.”

“Of course, James,” Jarvis immediately complied. 

“You certainly got the hang of that, I swear I think Steve does mostly all of it still by hand out of spite,” Wilson pulled up the chair, leaning forward, hands clasped together, “Can’t say I’m used to it much myself, having him hover over my shoulder all the time, gives me the heebie jeebies. No offence, Jarvis.”

“None taken, Sam,” Jarvis casually replied. 

“So, any more thoughts on the big move?” Sam turned back to him again.

“No.”

Wilson paused for a second, smiled and waggled a finger at him, “You got me there.”

James tensed. It had been the wrong answer obviously. Wilson wanted to know everything twice. He didn’t ask for anything. It was all a test and he failed. His fingers cramped up and he clamped it down in his tunic. 

“Ask open questions with this guy,” Wilson leaned back, arm slung over the back rest, posture open and relaxed, “I always forget. Any differences between this room and yours at the Raft?”

“I can watch movies,” James pushed his feet against the ground, he could use this simple recital to get a hold of himself, “This room exists of a room and a bathroom, it has a table, chair and a cupboard. A more advanced system monitors me now. The food is different. You visit me inside the room.”

“Yeah, that must be a big difference,” Wilson confirmed, “How is that working out?”

James didn’t know how to answer that. He could make assumptions on Wilson’s behalf, but that was not his place and he hardly had sufficient data to pull any conclusions anyhow. His stomach swirled again, making his knees weak. 

“So let me make an observation of my own here,” Wilson pulled his arm back, both hands on his knees, both feet on the floor, “You’re stiff as a board, pressed in a corner, wide-eyed, breathing rapid. Now this comes across to me as if you’re uncomfortable with me in the room. Like you’re scared of me. What do you think of that?”

James forced his body forward, standing tall and steady. His hand started shaking harder, but he could do nothing with it but press it hard in the small of his back, “I am not scared of you.”

“Okay, so you’re not scared of me, I’m not scared of you,” Wilson knocked on the table with a grin, “Glad we got that out of the way. Would you like to keep standing, or sit down?”

“I’ll stand,” James said, hardly waiting before Wilson had finished. 

“Okay, okay. That’s good,” Wilson let that hang in the room for a bit, “Have you made up your mind about face to face visits in general, as well?”

James wasn’t sure why he had to think back of the photograph that Rogers had made. The solitary figure thin and scant. A speck compared to what he used to be, prominent and revered. Wilson was not scared of him, because there was nothing left to be scared of.

While Wilson waited on the answer, the soldier examined the room. The chair: a makeshift weapon, but out of reach. The linen: a makeshift weapon, ripping it apart to make a usable garrote would waste valuable time. The table: a makeshift weapon, bolted to the floor. At his current state uncertain whether he could rip it out at all. 

“What’s happening here?” Wilson had noticed the change, nearly on the edge of his seat, glancing to the door, "We got off the tracks, I feel. Tell me what’s going on.”

Jarvis would neutralize him before he would move a muscle. Any action would set him back. Send him back to the cell on the Raft. No sense of time, no warm showers, no soft sheets. No books that Wilson personally brought him. 

“Thank you,” James cast his eyes on the floor, dropped his shoulders, curved his spine, “For the books.”

“You’re more than welcome, James,” Wilson laughed a little on the hysterical side, “But that sounds like you’re sick of me already. You want me to leave?”

“No,” James did his best attempts at a smile Bucky Barnes would give, “I like to read.”

“Well shit,” Wilson’s eyebrows shot up, “Okay, why don’t we read for a while,” he got up, back turned to him without a second thought, “I brought some of my favorites that I’m sure you’re going to like.”

⁂

Weeks went by before James saw anything of Hill again. Every day he expected her to show up and tell him it was time to leave. Or rather they would start gassing the room and he would wake up somewhere else. He had some basic background information on the various super secure prisons Shield operated. After their fall, they must’ve lacked resources to keep them running efficiently, especially if the Raft got run over by a shambling Hydra. 

But his information was getting more out of date, by the day. Before his relocation he could piece together the state of Shield and by extension Hydra and how far they were at catching the other. Now he had no vision whatsoever. Hill and her advisors must have deemed his information insufficient and he couldn’t disagree. It was only a matter of time before he became completely redundant on that front. And while he had hoped to make a more steady recovery towards being operational, progress made had been disappointing. If only by the fact that they kept him locked in here without any demands for action. 

He asked Sam about it, one day where Sam had asked about the exercises he did during the night. But the answer was the same. He would not be fighting or used in any capacity by Shield or the Avengers. He was here to get better. It stayed unclear what would happen when this better state had been reached. Or even what Sam or Hill deemed ‘better’. James refrained from any more of those questions, he clearly wasn’t authorized to know.

Both Barton and Wilson visited him abundantly. Wilson offered him books while Barton kept bringing him coffee no matter how much that made him black out, if only for a second. Usually he laughed it off. 

When Hill did come to him, she showed him pictures on the screen of people he hardly knew and places he had never been. She didn’t appear to be particularly disappointed, it was like she expected, more or less. She seemed more bored than anything else. At least she believed him when he said he didn’t know. It increased his nausea and vertigo. Leaving him sitting on the bed for several hours before deciding to up his exercise routine even more. 

He walked his circles, did rep after rep of sit-ups and squats. The panic in his chest did not simmer down. He tested the door frame to the bathroom to see if it would hold his weight and added some hundred pull ups. His arm only shook harder and he added another hundred more. 

The lights went out and Jarvis didn’t say anything when he continued. When finished he started all over again. A hundred circles and a hundred more to press the limit of his vertigo. One armed push-ups hadn’t been part of the plan yet. Falling down on the gutted left armpit, no matter how healed or covered it was, could lead to senseless injury. Now he forced his trembling arm to comply. Feeling sweat stick to his forehead and drenching into the tunic. His stomach rolled. He would not throw up. Sick pressed its way up his throat. He would not throw up. Nausea waved through him, pulsating from the pit of his stomach down into the tips of his fingers. He threw up. It splattered over his hand and into his hair. The sharp acidic smell filled the small room. With a click the vent sped up, circulating the air faster. 

He dropped back, sitting on his folded feet. His arm shook and no matter how hard he tried, his breath would not steady. Short, ragged burst of air pushed in and out again, never relaxing, never providing enough oxygen. 

He smeared the vomit over his duvet as he pushed himself upwards, stumbling towards the bathroom. A soft light bloomed overhead. He immediately pressed his eyes closed. 

“Jarvis, please turn off the light.”

Jarvis didn’t play the jingle this time, “Of course, James. Please note that I’ve notified Agent Hill as per my instructions.”

It meant he had less than five minutes to clean up his mess and limit the fallout. He stepped into the shower, tunic and all and let the cold water wash everything away. He did not bother with the fancy shower gels. He pushed the button again when the shower timer ended, keeping himself upright on the slippery tiles. 

Somehow he managed to push the zipper down, dropping the wet tunic on the floor with a loud splat. He left it there. There were no towels. Jarvis turned on the warm air drier, but he got out, slamming the door, crashing down on his knees. He heaved again, reaching for the toilet. This time, nothing came out, just his pathetic breath echoing in the bowl. 

He didn’t bother unrolling paper and just brought the whole roll with him. The wet tunic would be a second option, but he didn’t want to ruin the outfit. He was running out of time. 

He pushed the door open with his elbow and froze. 

Romanoff was already there, sitting poised and composed on the chair, her feet close but not touching the puddle of puke on the floor. 

“Better put something on, we don’t want you to be embarrassed,” her grin was hardly visible in the darkness.

He crawled up to the cupboard, keeping his eyes on her at all times. She never had paid him an informal visit before. This was an adjudication. She didn’t speak while he fumbled his way into the fresh tunic, just observed him. 

“Lights on, Jarvis, if you please,” Romanoff ordered without a kick, “Can you send something to help clean this up?”

“Clean up is on its way, Agent Romanoff.”

“As for you,” Romanoff gave the slightest nod in his direction, “So I heard about your new name, but like you to tell me anyway. Just to make sure, you understand.”

He hadn’t felt like James all evening and standing there facing her, figuratively at her feet, made him feel more like the remnant than anything else. Next to that picking the name James had been a calculated risk that hadn’t paid off. Of course he knew it was Bucky Barnes’s original name. Using it would give him an edge with Rogers more than anything, despite any suspicion it would develop. Now the person who was the biggest risk asked him about it and Rogers hadn’t shown his face in months. 

“James,” he hardly let go of the breath he was holding. 

She gave that a moment, keeping eye contact, her foot dangling over her knee. She didn’t nod or say okay or acknowledged what she said in any way. Just let him get his tunic on and stand still before him for the duration of several minutes. Only to be interrupted by a small robot who rode it, cleaned the mess off the floor and rode back out again. The door sounded a deafening click as it left. 

“Sit down,” she ordered, her voice demanding despite the uninterested hilt to it. 

He sat down on the bed. The fabric of his jumpsuit clinging to his armpit and groin. His shoulders wet from his dripping hair. 

Her own hair a perfect cascade of curls around her ears. She hadn’t been sleeping before she came here, she had been anticipating this. 

“Tell me what you need, James,” she stressed the name, as if it was a joke. 

He decided to tell her the truth, she would find out if he was lying either way. 

“Give me a mission.”

“You need to kill people,” she stated. 

Just a fact. No judgement or disgust. A simple observation. 

“I need to be useful,” he told her, gripping the duvet tight and then letting go. 

“That’s not going to happen, James,” she cooed, her face an imitation of pity, the small, manicured hand on her knee reaching closer, “This is a prison. You are a prisoner. We’re not in the business of letting prisoners run along with us on missions. There will be no reevaluation where you can lie your way through, there won’t be a trial where you can plead your case or assessments whether you’re strong enough. You can stop. Aren’t you tired?”

“No,” the panic lilted his voice making his desperation clear.

“You can rest, James,” she kept saying his name, “You can finally lie down and go to sleep. You haven’t slept for seventy years. No more killing, no more orders or missions or people telling you what to do, where to go, who to be. This is it. This is what it has resulted in. They used you and they now have no more use for you. You can sit down, have a cup of coffee, watch a movie. Rest, James. Just… Rest. Doesn’t that sound nice?”

Her words fell somewhere in the sugar sweet cotton of the bed, drifting in and through the room like a whisper on the breeze. Gentle teases of the summer sun on a winter’s day. A refreshing brook lapping at naked feet. He remembered Bucky going to Coney Island with Steve, overlayed and transposed by the spy and the target. Both on the Wonder Wheel. Both looking out over the water, day and night. 

Only he heard Rumlow’s voice in between. Hydra had no more use for him. Redundant and worthless. The last order. 

He came to sit at the table, halfway through breakfast, a silly cartoon showing on the screen before him. He knew he wasn’t alone. The hairs on the back of his neck standing upright, another heartbeat in the room, the shift in air. She must have noticed too, because she shuffled on his bed behind him, intentionally, but casual enough for anyone else. 

“I’m still here,” Romanoff simply said and flipped the page of a book, “Eat your food, James.”

He squished his toast and ate his food. 

⁂

James read books, watched movies, ate his food and exercised. He answered all of everyone’s questions. Sometimes with an “I don’t know”, sometimes with an indecision. Where the days blurred together before, they appeared to be endless now. There would be no end to it. No change. If there were no more missions to be had, this was as good as it got. So James did what he was told: read, eat and sit around nodding yes and no. 

Hill didn’t visit him again, neither did Romanoff. It meant what they said was true, there would be nothing for him in the future. With Shield or in any other capacity. Being stuck here meant that he could be of no use to any other organization either. His unique and refined skill set wasted. 

James scratched another strip in the table board after dinner, observing that his fingernails needed a cut and bit down on them. Barton and Wilson didn’t usually visit after this hour, so he tensed more than usual when Jarvis played his gentle crescendo. 

“Captain Rogers will be visiting you shortly,” Jarvis announced. 

James whipped around the room to look at the tiny dot in the corner of the room. Jarvis didn’t tell him anything else without prompting. He dragged his hand through his hair, getting stuck in the tangles and knots. His half bitten fingernail got stuck in the strands. Untangling was a disaster, where it seemed a better option to bite everything through. 

He still had his finger in his mouth when Rogers knocked on the door. Somehow he managed to swallow the nail before pushing his hand back in his lap. He stared at the door. It didn’t open. Rogers knocked again. 

And again. 

“Captain Rogers would like to know if he could come in,” Jarvis intervened. 

“Yes, I know,” James bit his teeth together, “Come in.”

Rogers poked his head in, tentative, “Hey,” he moved in and closed the door, “Hi”.

James stared up at him and decided to get up as well. They stared at each other for a while. It was unlike when Romanoff visited, a different kind of tension. An expectation rather than a warning. 

“It took me a long time to gather the courage to come here,” Rogers hooked his hands in his belt but didn’t look more authoritative from it, “James, right? Bucky didn’t like the name.”

“Yes,” James pushed his own hand to his back, for lack of anything to do it with. 

“You look good, you know, like you got some food in you,” Rogers pointed out, “Some color on your face.”

There was no question, he didn’t answer. He didn’t know what he looked like, there was no mirror in the bathroom. He gained some muscle back, being able to retain food and increasing his workout had some effect. But as far as appearance went, he had no clue. He still thought of that photograph Rogers took. The pathetic image of a man. 

Rogers looked around the room, to the bed with its crumpled sheets; the cabinet now full of books; the door to the bathroom, part way open; the table, carved up. 

“It looks like Sam was right, it’s an improvement. No more glass wall, I mean… Jarvis, can we look outside?”

“Agent Hill has not approved that function of the screen, Steve,” Jarvis said. 

“Can I approve that function? With just me here it should be fine,” Rogers smirked in his direction. 

“Very well, I’ll activate the function during your visits,” Jarvis lifted the opaque wall across the table. 

The sun had already set, but a faint blue still pierced through dark clouds. The skyline glittered in front of it. High risers filled with lights and people blocked in by large stretches of road. It was raining. Drops reflecting and refracting the lights. 

James held his breath, for a moment, then he pulled himself back to Rogers. Target in sight at all times. 

“You can’t see Brooklyn from here,” Rogers walked up to the window and tapped on the screen, “Wrong side of the building, but there’s Central Park and that sliver is the water, see?”

“Yes.”

He could see the park. Dark blotted trees framed by wandering paths of lights.

“Did you finish your photography book? We can take a picture,” Rogers pulled out his phone, “I’m not really supposed to,” he shrugged, “But when have I ever cared about what authority thinks.”

Rogers smiled, but it faltered when James didn’t respond to it. He knew it for what it was. A careful attempt to see how much of Bucky Barnes was still there. But Rogers had said he didn’t want him. 

“I finished the book,” James moved backwards instead, focusing on the question. 

He didn’t turn around as he picked the book from the shelf and laid it down on the table. No sudden movements. Rogers hardly looked at the book, the view and his phone were more interesting. 

“Why don’t you show me,” Rogers took a picture himself, deemed it not worthy and deleted it.

He simply handed the phone over. 

He waited, just for a minute. Romanoff or Hill could be just outside the door, ready to pull the phone straight out of his hands. He could use it to contact Hydra, he could use it to compromise Rogers, he could use it as a weapon. 

Nothing happened and he accepted the phone. Rogers moved closer, to see what he was doing on the phone. 

James could feel his chest tighten. As Bucky Barnes this closeness was acceptable if not desired. As the soldier all he wanted to do was grab him in the neck and smash his face on the table. As James he had no idea what to do or what it meant. His breathing increased, signifying the panic and his hand trembled, but he didn’t know why. 

He could take Rogers, even without the metal arm, their fight on the Helicarrier proved that. Rogers was too compromised to hurt his old friend. He could take a beating too, if it came down to it. He assessed that Romanoff would be able to do the most damage, followed by the Hulk or Iron Man on a pure power level. This closeness signified nothing and still his hand trembled. 

He dropped the phone on the table. 

“Woops,” Rogers flipped it and left it on the table, “Use it like that.”

James followed the order, making smudges on the phone, leaving fingerprints and greasy marks as he set the shutter speed and increasing the ISO. The phone could not adjust the aputure. He stepped back when he was done. 

“Like this?” Rogers asked, picked up the phone, took a picture and immediately moved it, shaking the screen when nothing happened. 

“No,” James held out his shaking hand and pulled it back instantly, “Hold it steady. For ten seconds.”

Jarvis dimmed the lights unprompted which sent another shiver down his spine. Rogers held up the phone for fifteen seconds now. Giving a soft ‘oh!’ as the picture got made. 

“It’s still a bit blurry,” he examined the screen, “Guess I’m not that steady.”

“A tripod is ideal.”

“We’ll use the book,” Rogers shrugged, propped the phone against the book and made another picture. 

“Look at that,” Rogers showed the newly made photograph with a smile, “That looks really good.”

James wasn’t sure about that. The camera had indeed made a comparable depiction of the scene outside, but it didn’t show him what was good about it. Or preferable to any other picture. 

“Why?” he asked as Rogers shoved the phone in his hands to look, “Why is this good?”

“Because it’s pleasing to look at, I suppose,” Rogers shoved his hands in his pockets, leaning casually against the window. 

“What makes it pleasing to look at?”

At that Rogers laughed, just briefly, “Eh, that’s a good question,” he pondered it for a few moments, “It’s very subjective I suppose. What looks nice to one person, might not look nice to the other. It’s all about feelings. For me the colors are striking and the skyline is dramatic and it’s telling me it’s in the future. All those lights, it’s not like the Brooklyn I used to know at all.”

James looked down at the picture, now that the view outside had shifted to a darker shade. It wasn’t like Brooklyn that Bucky Barnes grew up in. And after he fell down that train and joined Hydra, he never noticed that it had changed. How the buildings grew taller and the lights multiplied, the business increased. 

The phone slipped between his shaking fingers again. This time it fell on the floor. His hand cramped, tensing up from fingers to shoulder.

Rogers used to draw sometimes. Cityscapes from the neighborhood. Brooklyn, he knew, or Bucky Barnes knew. Sometimes he would give it a color wash, drenching his pencils in a deep sepia or different shades of red. He would know what was good, what was pleasing to the eye, what to like or not to like. Though bringing up memories from Rogers’s time with Bucky Barnes didn’t prove helpful, maybe he could still get the information he needed.

“Show me, please,” James said as Rogers dropped down to pick up his phone.

Rogers nearly bumped into the table, “What? Show you what?”

“What is good.”

Rogers’s eyes went wide and watery. For a moment he thought he had made an error in judgement. That asking this as James was worse than bringing up Bucky Barnes. But Rogers clutched the phone to his chest and nodded. 

“I can show you what I like and then you can make a picture of it,” Rogers got a hold of the emotions playing on his face. 

James agreed. If he knew what was good, he might become useful to the Avengers. He might become better.


	14. Chapter 14

Steve watched the pictures on his phone. They made several more of the items in the room, letting Jarvis help set the light, casting it in dramatic lighting or tinting it in colors. The results were very enjoyable. Not even the photos specifically. He had a good time, having James tell him what settings to use while Steve framed a book or the chair in such a way to make a pretty picture. Talking the rest of the evening about composition, color theory, contrast and negative spacing. 

He had ideas for next time. There wasn’t a whole lot in the room, so Steve could bring a whole lot of different objects with weird shapes and textures and they could set up all kinds of still lives. And the window would provide them all kinds of backdrops, depending on the time of day. It was winter still, but in a few months, spring would break and the park would flourish. Or maybe they got another few good days of snow instead of the steady drab that had been littering the streets for days. 

Steve had insisted on taking another picture of James. He didn’t want to sit, or hadn’t gotten the hint, so he stood in the middle of the room, framed by the dark bathroom. His hair had grown long, lying on his shoulders, crumbled and tangled into a big mess. His form was still hunched and tense, but there was more meat on his bones, a sharpness to his eyes that didn’t border on extreme hypervigilance. It was a big difference from how he looked at the Raft. 

When he entered the Avengers meeting room that morning to go over their slow, weekly progress, Maria met him with the biggest scowl, not as big as when he told her he wanted to meet James the first time on the Raft, but up there. 

“Do not hand him your phone, Steve, is that clear?” she didn’t start the day with pleasantries, “If I must, I’ll demand you leave it in a little basket near the door for you to pick it up after school.”

“We were making pictures,” Steve told her, not even bothering to sit with the whole room looking at him, “I was there the whole time.”

“I don’t care,” Maria pressed a finger hard on the tabletop, “You do not give him your phone, I’ve been lenient enough. He’s not here for some sort of workshop, this is his temporary prison. No phones.”

“Okay,” Steve made sure she saw he was less than okay with it. 

He didn’t tell her he’d just bring an actual camera next time. 

“Now that that is out of the way,” she swiped over the tablet and pointed to the big screen behind her, “To start off, yes, Rumlow is still at large, no, we still don’t know where he and his mutley gang of left over goons are hiding. The ties we have a hold of are hanging by a thread. Furthermore, we’ve stuffed every escaped convict in every other facility that would have them and they are at capacity. We have caught tail of a few more moving around in India. Steve and Natasha will team up with a strike team to catch these stranglers, departure is in thirteen hours.”

“At the same time we’re getting a move on with our undercover plan,” Natasha cut-in, “Sam will move with Clint as back-up, the training will have to be enough, we can’t afford to lose our tie in. Departure for that is in five hours, it’ll be a long plane ride guys, lot’s of time to prepare those aliases, boys. Put on your lipstick and break a leg.”

“Am I even here for anything?” Tony asked exasperated, flicking a pen between his fingers, “Seriously, the Avengers is a lot more people than just you five, you know. Where’s Bruce? Where’s Thor? Where’s the big bad smashing our beloved city to smithereens?”

“Tony, I know that alien invasion left quite an impression,” Natasha cooed him, “But most of the time it’ll just be us soldiers and spies trying to catch the not so big bad trying to destroy a not so beloved city.”

“Besides, I think Bruce likes it better to spend time with you in the lab than running around wrecking havoc,” Hill pointed out, sipping her coffee. 

“Well I’m bored, you know what happens when I’m bored,” Tony flicked his pen in the air, “I invent things like the Iron Man suit and let me tell you, that will be on you when that happens. I can’t just go outside gallivanting on my own, saving the grandma from running over, picking the kitten from the tree. Can you see that? The incredible Iron Man swooping in just in time before little Timmy slips from the lowest step on the porch.”

“Tony, you made the Iron Man suit because you had a piece of metal in your heart and were held hostage by a terrorist group,” Steve reached for one of the sugared donuts on the table and decided to grab two. 

He should bring James some donuts. 

“Details,” Tony waved his hand, pointing the pen in Steve’s direction, “How about I go with little red riding hood here to ring up these rascals and you can stay here to reconnect with your old bosom buddy using Jarvis as a simplified disco light.”

Steve coughed and sprew powdered sugar all over himself and the table. Natasha showed him a haughty smirk and pushed a few napkins his way. 

“As much as Steve would love to hang around his new found incarcerated friend to show him the new world as he knows it, we’re going to stick to the plan.”

“Why don’t you make him a new arm?” Sam casually threw on the table, he didn’t even glance at Maria.

“No,” she started, “How many time-”

“I’ve already done that,” Tony slurped hard on his smoothie, “It was done months ago, been there done that. Give me a real challenge.” 

“Tony, you’re not giving the Hydra assassin-spy who is responsible for the murder of hundreds of people, amongst of which several key figures in international politics and quite possibly a president of the united states, a new arm. I feel people in this room are getting so comfortable with him, they forget about that little tidbit of information.”

“We’ve killed people too, Hill, that doesn’t mean you can’t redeem yourself,” Tony puffed his chest. 

“Especially when the humanity has been tortured out of you,” Sam scoffed over his cup of coffee, “Maybe you forget about that little tidbit yourself, Maria.”

“I don’t forget,” Maria snapped, “That’s why he’s here and not in some pit at the bottom of the Fridge, Sam, that doesn’t excuse he walked around pretending to be Steve’s best friend back from the dead and feeding Hydra some really sensitive details about us and Avengers’ activity.”

“Guys, let’s stay on topic,” Steve crumpled up his paper and shoved it into his mug, “We have missions to run, let’s focus on that.”

“Phst,” Natasha whispered next to him, “As if talking about him isn’t your favorite topic.”

Steve decidedly ignored her and focused on Maria as she went over the mission details again. 

⁂

“On your six,” Natasha panted in his ear as he crashed more through than over the makeshift fence. 

He landed strong, swooped around and tossed his shield. Knocking the person behind him on the arm, the woman screamed out, dropping the weapon she was holding. The shield bounced back to him, crashing a window and leaving a dent in a nearby house. 

“I’m giving chase,” Steve turned back around, trying to see where the man went he was chasing to begin with. 

The Shield strike team would take care of the woman. 

He burst out of the sidestreet, straight into traffic, mopeds and cars beeped at him in a cacophony of distress. It seemed like the whole world had converted on this street, people swerving in and out, cars puffing out thick bellows of smoke. Shouting, honking and the screeching and rattling of breaks. Between the rush of traffic, kids and animals zipped to cross the street. 

In the chaos, Steve spotted the man pressing in between cars to reach the other side, swinging his gun around, unable to pick a solid target. 

Steve hefted his shield. There were too many civilians. 

“Widow.”

“Yes,” Natasha said simply. 

Within a second she was beside him, in his arms and flung in a defty bow over the ruley mess below. In the air she shot one of her stinger bullets, then landed effortlessly on one of the taxis pulled over at the side. Meanwhile Steve made his way through the absolute deathtrap of a street, hearing people complain, honk and lean out of their cars to motion to get out of the way. 

Steve picked up the man, passed out and set him down on the side of the street. 

“Well that was exciting,” Natasha wiped the sweat from her brow. 

Her face was starting to show the bruising, but she smirked up at Steve, showing the contentment. 

“See I don’t always have to catch you,” he pulled her in and squished her against his side, “I know you’ll always land on your feet.”

Natasha laughed and punched him hard between the ribs, “I trust you to catch me wherever I fall!” 

Someone from the strike team approached to handcuff the man and push him into the van. No one on the street gave them a second look, busy with their own lives. Steve and Natasha made their way back to the two star hotel room that they shared. 

“The last time we’ve ever had it this clean must have been Alaska. That round up was done within ten minutes, we tracked them through the snow and found them huddled together in a snowdrift. Hands shaking too much to fire a weapon. We had hot chocolate later, such a pleasant day,” Natasha let him into the room. 

Their clothes and weapons on the floor, on the bed. Light streaming through flimsy curtains. Steve kicked off his boots, Natasha dropped her guns, her stingers and a couple of knives on the bed and dove on the other. 

“The blankets were made of bear and seal, soft as a cloud, but with weight, you know, reassuring” she continued, “With the snow fluttering down from the darkened sky behind a stone cold window. I’ve never slept so well in my entire life.”

“Very poetic, Natasha,” Steve pulled her shoes off when she lazily tapped him on the leg, “When will your next poetry night performance be?”

“Right after your new photography exhibition,” she stretched out, languid, before settling down, “Weren’t you a painter?”

“I am,” Steve zipped out of his own suit, folded it neatly and laid it on the top of his suitcase, and left for the bathroom, “I was.”

“Tell me about it,” she shouted from the bed. 

“I don’t really want to talk about it, Nat,” Steve leaned over the sink. 

His face was smeared with dirt and sweat. No blood this time, his or anyone else's. The convicts at large hadn’t been able to get in a lucky hit. They were all just scared. They just wanted to run away. Even though Hydra busted them out of prison, they didn’t ask for it. Steve knew what he would do in their place, he certainly wouldn’t stay sitting on the floor like James had done, surrendering to his fate. 

He splashed water in his face. 

“Tell me about it anyway,” Natasha sounded from the room, “I want to know.”

Steve sighed, whipped up a lather with soap, scrubbed his face clean and gave the shabby shower a longfull look. 

“Do we have to talk about it now,” Steve groaned, “I’m sweaty and hungry and just want to fall into bed and watch bad Bollywood movies.”

“We can do all of that at the same time. You take that shower and I’ll order room service.”

“They don’t do room service here.”

“Food delivery is a thing in India too, Steve. Take a shower.”

He took a shower. Letting the water crash over him, to ease out the day, to make him stop thinking about it. Of course he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Maybe during the moment. During the rush when he flings his shield, when he punches, when he grabs a pistol and shoots. He didn't think about it then, but now he recognized the fear in their eyes. How much were these people volunteers and how much where these people mind controlled prisoners, just a dog with a bad habit. 

How many were like Bucky. Or James. 

How many were locked up in cells with no agency or integrity, bored out of their minds. 

“Food is here,” Natasha opened the bathroom door, “Hurry up, I want to shower too.”

“For fuckssake, Natasha!” the clear shower door left little to the imagination. 

He would’ve tossed a shampoo bottle at her head if she hadn’t already retreated with a snickering laugh. 

She was still lying on the bed in her tacgear watching the news. Two plastic bags filled with spicy curries and naan bread. She rolled over on her stomach and flipped the channel to some soap opera. 

“My turn,” she gave a wicked grin and bounced off the bed. 

After he dressed in a shirt and some sweatpants, he took a sneak peak in the bag and nibbled at the bread. She bought kulfi too and he put it in the fridge before it thawed. He pulled out his phone strangled in the folds of his suit. 

“Did you contact Maria?” he shouted at her.

“Of course, I did, I’m obviously the responsible one here.”

There were no new messages and he nearly dropped his phone before he figured he might as well take a picture. Maybe James would like to see the rooftop view from this shabby hotel. He pushed the curtains aside and snapped a shot. It didn’t look very impressive when he did it. So instead he made a selfie. 

He moved to clean up the room a bit before Natasha came back in. 

“So,” Natasha folded herself back on the bed in her underwear, “Tell me all about this side of Steve. The painter.”

She looked up expectantly as she ripped the bags open, spreading out the food on the plastic. 

“Not much to say,” he sat down, attentive not to rock the carefully laid out platter of dishes, “Before, I took some art classes, did some ads here and there, painted a few signs,” he shrugged, “Then the war happened.”

“And then you got thawed out and picked up this lifelong passion again, reconnected with your creative side, let it be an outlet for your emotions,” Natasha dipped her naan in the curry, picking out the potato. 

“You want to talk about my emotions again is that it?” Steve picked a water bottle from the mini bar. 

“I want to know what kind of things you make,” Natasha dapped every spill on her chin away immediately, “I don’t have a creative bone in my body. And you’ve met Clint. I want to get to know this side of you.”

“There’s really nothing to get to know. My therapist tried to get me to draw again, like I did before and it backfired. I bought all this stuff, all these expensive beautiful pencils and paints and papers that I never could afford and it’s collecting dust somewhere in the apartment.”

“Steve, that’s so sad,” she pouted and placed a hand on his, “Maybe you need to awaken that muse with some small exercises. Loosen up the muscles.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” he kept eating. 

“Then how did it used to work?” she cleared out the container of saag. 

“Everything was different, I was sick and frail and had a lot of time on my hands to sit indoors,” he motioned around the room, “Now I’m big and strong and I can actually do things to help other people.”

“Okay,” Natasha dotted the grease from her lips, “Just don’t forget to help yourself once in a while.”

She leaned back on the bed and upped the sound of a movie playing, as if on cue, people spontaneously burst into song. 

“How do you do that then, helping yourself,” he wasn’t quite done yet, given she was the one to bring it up.

“I discuss that with my therapist,” Natasha didn’t even glance at him, showing her complete disinterest to further this conversation. 

“And you’re saying I don’t? She keeps telling me the same thing, to just try it out, to create a habit and I’ve tried and it didn’t work.”

“No one ever said it would be easy,” she draped herself over the pillow, “Would it help if I let you draw me after all? Paint me like one of your French girls.”

Something popped and her extremely pouted lips and the overly languorous pose made the suggestion all the more absurd. He burst out laughing. 

“What does that even mean?”

“It’s a joke Steve,” she smiled and then patted the bed next to her, “Now come here and watch this movie with me.”

⁂

Every time that Steve came by James would stand in the middle of the room. His back straight, hand behind his back, his face completely blank but his eyes focused and sharp. Steve would notice items had moved across the room though. Books being on the bed or table. The door to the bathroom stood open or closed. A movie paused on the screen. Sometimes there was a tray of food, his other tunic draped over the chair, the duvet lying next to the bed. 

It made him think of that picture he took of him, at the end of his first visit at the Tower. This time, fumbling with his bag of danishes, he made a picture as soon as he came in. Maybe it could be the first in a series. 

After another brush with Maria, and some intervention from Tony developing a secure camera that Natasha would have problems breaking into, she let them have their fun.

“He did circumvent your security before,” Maria had said then. 

“And he won’t do it again,” had Tony stated just as simply. 

James didn’t seem to have an opinion on switching from a phone to an actual photo camera. He did handle it with the same familiarity as the phone. Unlike Steve himself who had a tough first week trying to figure how to operate a mobile phone in the first place. 

“Did you change the settings?” James took a step forward and then halted, completely stiff. 

“Nope,” Steve grinned, “That’s your job.”

He handed James the camera and he immediately started fiddling around with the settings. 

“I brought danishes,” Steve didn’t mind being ignored, it was a big difference from the normal hyperfocus, “And also something special.”

James immediately snapped up from the camera, saw the pastry bag on the table and besides it a manila folder. He immediately set the camera down on the table. 

“A mission,” James’s voice pitched, his fist tightened. 

“No,” Steve tapped on the folder, “Have a look.”

Somehow Steve was still hoping for sparks of emotion, something to burst the bubble the Winter Soldier held Bucky captive. No matter how hard he tried to see James as his own person. Because he was. And he deserved that. But that hope just didn’t die. 

James didn’t say anything, didn’t show anything when he pulled the A4 sized prints out of the folder. The first picture was amongst them, of the dark skyline in the rain. The rest were results of experimentation with objects. Steve decided against printing any pictures of James himself, thinking back at the visceral reaction to his own image back on the Raft. As visceral as it got, at least. 

James spread the photos out on the table, then shoved them back in the folder, making sure they were in order of date. 

“Do you like them?” Steve made sure to ask, trying to hide the hurt of the dismissal. 

It wasn’t dismissal, of course, not on purpose. But James shuffled back, hand shivering, his face stone cold.

Steve picked up the folder, waiting patiently, carding through them.

“Why those?” James landed on.

“I liked them best,” Steve pulled out a picture they made with a Starbucks coffee cup and Gone With the Wind in the background, “This one is my favorite. No one’s watching these old movies nowadays, except people who praise them in the air like they were worth their way in gold. Old and new, still the same pulp.”

“It’s a coffee cup,” James took the photo to look at it again, “With Scarlett O’Hara.”

“Yeah but it tells a story,” Steve laid the rest on his lap, “Someone was watching the movie, in this day and age, but at the same time is really contemporary and enough so to drink Starbucks. Pretending to be highbrow, when they are not.”

“But we put it like this,” James pointed out. 

Steve chuckled, leaning back on the bed, “Yeah, but nobody else knows that.”

“And the story makes it better than the others?” James’s voice level, the lilt of the question hardly present. 

“I think so,” Steve went through the photos again and lingered at the one of the shadows on the wall, “But I’m not a professional curator. There’s value in just a pretty picture too.”

The photo fluttered in his hand as James kept staring at it, as if it was supposed to tell him all the secrets of the universe, but it just wouldn’t give it to him. 

“We can hang one or two here,” Steve pointed to the wall along the bed, “And I’ll hang the rest up at my place.”

“Steve,” Jarvis intervened, “Please be aware that Agent Hill has been very adamant about not allowing James any more unauthorized items.”

“Nonsense,” Steve brushed it off, got up and took a pack of bluetack out of his pocket, “He has books, he can have a flimsy photo on the wall.”

“Steve,” Jarvis continued, his tone didn’t change, but it appeared more pressing nonetheless, “She will take away your or James’s visiting privileges if you continue.”

“Excuse me?” Steve slapped the pictures and tack on the table, “On what right? This is getting ridiculous. We have this discussion every single time, she can’t just keep changing the rules.”

Steve huffed and then noticed that James had made himself very small and very still. Something about the look in his eyes reminded him of the Winter Soldier, more so than usual. A certain tension around him, the way that everything was set to sharp, ready to snap. 

“James,” he tried, “It’s alright, I’m going to talk to her and we’re going to settle this. She won’t make things worse than it already is.”

James gave no reaction, keeping him in his sights, but not really looking him in the eye either. 

“Is this one of your dissociative affairs?” Steve reached out, “Would you even tell me if it was?”

The moment Steve came in contact he realized his mistake. But James was faster and stronger than a normal man, swept him off his feet. They crashed into the chair, snapping the legs like twigs. With his thighs James tied him in a hold, his hand slamming for Steve’s throat. 

Before there was any serious pressure, Steve slammed him on the elbow, swung his legs around and kicked him back. He flew hard against the bathroom door, denting it. Within moments he was back up on his feet, charging. 

This time Steve was more prepared, and managed to deflect the flinging arm only to get a knee in liver. He shielded himself from another incoming blow and then struggled to keep upright as James dropped his whole weight on him, suddenly completely limp, sliding down onto the floor. 

Steve rushed to help him up and down on the bed, plucking out the small dart at the back of his neck. 

“Agent Hill is on her way, Steve,” Jarvis spoke as if the whole fight hadn’t impressed him much. 

“Fuck,” Steve dropped down besides the bed.

It hadn’t even taken half a minute and Steve felt his heart hammering in his chest. The same desperation mixed with fear that he felt on the helicarrier. The same betrayal and utter disappointment. He couldn’t look at James, or Bucky, or the Winter Soldier. Knocked out, still rigid even in his sleep. 

He took a deep breath, pushed himself up and picked up all the photos from the floor. The chair could probably not be salvaged, the legs and seat cracked, the soft wood smooshed together like a gum. Maria opened the door when he was busy shoving it all in the corner. 

“Don’t even start,” Steve snapped, held up his hand and then flapped it helplessly in James’s direction. 

“Steve,” Maria sighed. 

He heard her click her gun back in her holster. 

“No,” Steve picked up the camera, “No, you listen to me. You’re going to get him some help. We’re going to get all of these people some goddamn help. I’m going to put an end to this.”

He shoved the manila folder filled with crumpled pictures into her hands and stormed past her. 

⁂

The sweat dripped down his chin and with every hit flung onto the punching bag. People had come into the gym and left Steve either alone or left the gym completely. Every time he pulled back another image of Bucky hit him and he had to punch it away. Empty his mind. Just him and the bag. Just him and the never ending motion of pull back, shuffle, block, hit.

He kept bouncing on his feet, ever in motion. He couldn’t lose focus, the withering patch on the fabric growing larger by the minute, flakes of red plastic dusted over his wound hands. Maria had made a few attempts at contact, which he graciously accepted, but every time she opened her mouth to make him understand he became angry. First he sat there, bit his tongue until she was done and gave her a piece of his mind. The second time after he slammed the table before she finished her first sentence. By the third time he straight up walked away, beelined to the gym. 

Natasha tried too of course. In her own way, making jokes or providing distractions while she brought the topic up again. He was sick of it. Sick of them not seeing the problem, saying they acknowledged it, but doing nothing about it. James was dangerous, unstable, a prisoner, literally and figuratively. Worst of all Natasha had said James was not his friend. Not capable of friendship. After what she told him about family, he couldn’t help but point out her hypocrisy. 

Right now all he could do was punch some things, go on missions and kick some serious Hydra ass. Additionally, he made sure to write down all the points he wanted to discuss with Sam and then in extension Pepper. Going to benefit galas and charity events wasn’t as satisfying as he hoped it was. He needed something concrete. Something he could touch with his hands and make a reality. 

The problem was that he didn’t know what that was. Yet. He had been in this century for several years now and there were still situations where he felt humbled. For how much things had remained the same, in the broad strokes, all the little details had changed. Extensive integration courses only went so far as to understand all the intricacies of getting things done effectively. Sam could help, he knew. As soon as he came back from his undercover mission. It was taking a long time and he needed a friend. 

Steve hit the punching bag, seams bursting, filling puffed out, spilling a bit on the floor. There was someone else he could consult. 

He showered, dressed and headed down to the lab. Tony didn’t respond when he came in and Jarvis made sure to announce him again. Completely absorbed in the very intricate and delicate soldering of some sort of chip, connecting resistors and diodes on a micro scale. His workbench was completely digital, his hands covered in the blue glow of his technical magic. The robot arms on the table connected moved as he did, with extreme precision. 

“Tony,” Steve crossed his arms when he got no reaction, “Tony!”

“I heard you, Steve, I just hoped that when you could see I’m very busy and need to concentrate, you’d have the decency to leave me alone,” Tony didn’t even look up from this magnified screen. 

“Not an option Tony, we’re going outside.”

“Get Natasha,” Tony twisted his wrist, “She’s been moping since Clint went on that mission. She can use the distraction.”

“I want you to come with me,” Steve looked around the lab to see if there was something he could use to coax Tony away. 

Coffee, nuts and a half empty plate of avocado toast lay surrounded by small electronic equipment and pieces of the iron man suit. One of them, at least, various versions hung in glass cases around the workshop. At the far end he saw a case, which held an arm. He looked away. A picture of him and Pepper knocked over but face up laid on his computer desk. There were tickets for a show, the date circled in red. 

“Tony,” he said sternly, “Don’t make me get Pepper involved.”

At that Tony groaned, straightened and tossed the interface away with the flick of his hands. 

“Steve, my darling American sweetheart, what can I do for you on this lovely…” he trailed off to check the time, “Late Thursday morning.”

“Let’s go see Peggy.”

He hadn’t thought that would actually leave him tongue tied for a second, though it didn’t last long. 

“Wow, alright, sure, you do know how to throw that on a man all of the sudden, don’t you,” Tony pressed his hands against his hips, “No warning, no reminder a few days in advance. Just swipe and crack, down for the count. Alright, let me get dressed. Is that what you’re wearing? Nevermind, it’ll mean she’ll appreciate the comparison. Jarvis, get me a bouquet, one with bright summer flowers, twenty stems at least. Nothing less for our dear marmi.”

“Yes, sir, it’ll be ready for you on the jet.”

“You’re getting better at mindreading Jarvis, truly a wonder boy genius.”

“You, or Jarvis?” Steve followed him back towards the elevators.

“Me of course,” Tony said without skipping a beat, “Jarvis is an artificial intelligence. He’s as smart as I made him to be.” 

“Absolutely right, sir,” Jarvis closed the elevator door and sent them on their way. 

Steve was certain Jarvis was condescending here, just a little bit. Tony took it all in stride. On his floor, Steve waited politely in the hallway of his extravagant penthouse. It certainly appeared way more impressive than the floor Steve slept on. But all these bells and whistles seemed rather excessive. No one needed this much room or this much stuff.

It took Tony nearly half an hour to get cleaned up. His grey suit held a red silk flower. The color of Peggy’s signature lipstick, Steve noticed. Never had he seen a red so red the moment he stepped out of that machine.

They kept their topics light on the flight over. Steve had managed early on to get Tony talking about his latest project, something he was building for his latest Iron Man suit. 

The attendant at the reception told them that they were in luck, Peggy was feeling quite good today and would love to receive visitors. Steve walked with Tony’s giant bouquet of flowers, nearly embarrassed as Tony sauntered along with him, giving the nurses flirty glances. 

Peggy was watching some kind of nineties tv show with a laugh track. The English subtitles were blown up and she still squinted through her glasses. She did immediately notice as Steve entered the room, her face lighting up before falling into something strict.

“Steve, darling, it’s been too long,” she grabbed for his hand, not the flowers, “How have you been?”

“You know me, keeping strong,” he kissed her cheek, “These are from Tony.”

“Oh! Let’s get someone to put them in water,” only then she really saw Tony hovering awkwardly behind, “Howard? I hadn’t expected you with Steve, did you come together?”

“That’s Tony,” Steve patted her hand as he laid the flowers on the nightstand, “Howards’s son.”

“Being compared to my father is an honor, as always,” Tony didn’t falter, “I walk within the footsteps of his brilliance. But who can ever live up to such a man, am I right, the drinking alone would kill me.”

Steve immediately laid a heavy hand on Tony’s shoulder, “She is ninety four years old, Tony. Either leave it or leave.”

Tony just lifted his hands, walked up to Peggy’s bedside and gave her a peck on the cheek, “Have to see my favorite girl once in a while.”

“Oh you foolish bob,” she grinned and flicked him away, “It certainly is strange to see you two here, I hadn’t thought there would yet be another time for us to come together like this. Just like old times.”

“Mrs Carter, look at these beautiful flowers you’ve gotten,” the woman who came in had brought a large vase and started to pick the paper off the bouquet, “You sure are lucky to get so much attention from these two lovely young men.”

“Very lucky,” Peggy grinned as she placed the vase next to the window, “Thank you, sweetheart. Sadly we’re missing someone.”

Steve knew immediately who she meant. He had come here not to talk about him. To get away from it all for a moment, but Bucky was haunting him. Past or future, Bucky was inescapable. 

“It wasn’t your fault, Steve, don’t blame yourself after all those years,” Peggy told him softly, like an echo from the war. 

“We found him,” Tony cut in, glancing at Steve, “His body. We’re going to do everything we can to put him to rest. Funeral, beautiful ceremony, the whole family will be there. A real American hero has come home.”

“Howard,” she looked shocked, “I knew you had a heart, why had you kept it hidden all this time, you twit.”

“I had an idea, Peggy,” Steve sat himself on the edge of the bed, “I want to start an organisation. A home for people who come home from the war. In Bucky’s name. Get them help.”

“Always so noble,” she squeezed his hand gently, “It’s a beautiful idea, Steve darling, you’re working together with Howard on this?”

“If he wants,” Steve glanced over to Tony who shrugged, “Perhaps with Pepper, she’s Tony’s euhm. Let’s call her his better half?”

“Pepper’s the woman in charge,” Tony couldn’t hold back a smirk, “Of me and everything I own.”

“You’re settling down Howard, you’re giving this old woman shock after shock. I’d never have believed it, if it wasn’t coming directly from the horse’s mouth. I wish you all the best, you understand I might not make it to the wedding.”

“Peggy!” Steve called out. 

“None of that, darling,” Peggy waved it away and brightened when the nurse came back with tea, “I’m having a lovely time, but I know that it won’t be long now.”

“Peggy!” Steve nearly knocked the cup of tea out of the nurse’s hands, “I don’t want to hear any of it.”

“You never do, darling,” Peggy smiled, accepting the delicate cup in her papersoft hands, “But that’s okay. That’s why we all love you so very much and you’ll be absolutely brilliant setting up this home for lost soldiers.”

“Get wrecked, Rogers,” Tony snickered behind his own cup of tea. 

“Don’t listen to him,” Peggy set her cup down, rattling it in on her dish, “I taught him everything on how to set up a company. Shield would be nowhere without him.”

“About Shield…” Steve started, always having trouble how to phrase the situation. 

He had brought it up several times how it fell, how it became corrupted, a fester ground for Hydra. That right now it was a shadow of what it used to be. A skeleton rattling in a box. 

“I know, Steve, I know,” Peggy put on a brave smile, but underneath this one her pain was visible, “My memory isn’t what it used to be, but I do remember all of that happening. Sharon tells me it’s still alive, they kept it alive, somehow.”

“Its reputation is ruined,” Steve frowned, “We still call it Shield, but we shouldn’t really, not anymore.”

“What’s in a name?” Peggy smiled, “As long as the heart is still the same. And you have heart, my darling. Maybe your own organisation will grow up to become what Shield tried to do. Differently, of course, but protecting people nonetheless.”

“Always a hero,” Tony said behind him, “Our very own Captain America. Doing the right thing.”

⁂

Steve found Natasha sitting in her pajamas eating cereal and watching some sort of kids cartoon in the cinema room. The lights were out, the sound on full blast. She had her feet up on the seats in front of her, a carton of milk and the empty box of cereal spilling its few remaining pieces on the floor. 

“Is this also a great American show I need to put down on my list?” he asked as he sat down beside her, watching a square yellow character talk in an annoying voice.

“Don’t watch Spongebob Squarepants, please,” Natasha shoveled in more cereal, “Some say it’s the perfect representation of our current society; the utter dreg from the bottom of a well with tiny specks of diamond in it. But truthfully, it’s not worth it.”

“Huh,” Steve watched the screen with her for a minute, the characters quipping away at each other, “I guess everything has merit.”

“National treasure, people say,” Natasha set her bowl aside, “I say it’s overrated. Maybe I’m too old for it.”

“Why watch it then?”

She shrugged, “It’s one of Clint’s.”

They watched the rest of the episode in silence. He’d like to bring up her relationship with Clint sometimes, but usually didn’t get a solid reply. It took her long enough to admit that they were together in some sense. And even now she never put a label on it. Steve had learned not to ask them any questions, even Clint would just shrug it off. Saying ‘It is what it is’. Something he had to respect.

“You’re here because you want to visit James, is that it?” she pulled her feet down and underneath her. 

Steve nearly blushed for being called out on it. It was, in fact, the reason why he had come to find her. Maria had decided that, after the outburst, James would not be visited one to one anymore. Even with Jarvis as back-up. Even when Steve had easily overpowered him. Even when it was completely his fault. 

“I thought about it, but now that I’m here, I’d rather spend time with this friend instead,” he told her. 

“Ahw, Steve, you shouldn’t have, just for little ol’ me,” she laid her hand daintily on her chest, “Really, don’t go the extra mile, I can’t bear it.” 

“Natasha, please, come on.”

She got up and brushed the crumbs off her fleece shirt, “No, come on, let’s go. Let’s visit your friend. I obviously don’t have anything better to do.”

He sighed, “You do, watching cartoons is doing something. You’re allowed to say no. And anything else I say on the matter is just going to make things worse, isn’t it? So let’s not go, let’s go outside, enjoy the spring weather, go to the zoo.”

She stood there for a second, her face turned to the screen, “Jarvis, turn this off. Lights on.”

Another moment more and he figured he’d have to come back another day and talk this out with her. 

“Let’s pick up some coffee and bring him some eclairs. Have you brought him eclairs yet?” 

“If you’re going to sit there and intimidate the living hell out of him, he’s not even going to look at the eclair,” he picked up her trash, balancing the jug of milk off his finger and flattening the carton against himself.

“I won’t,” she smiled, all pleasant, “He’ll get to know the real Natasha Romanoff, the one made out of marshmallows and hot chocolate.”

“So no coffee for you then,” he followed her to the elevator, back to her apartment, “Maybe not for him either.”

“Have you seen him at all, since the ‘incident’,” she quoted it with her fingers as she walked towards her bedroom.

Steve tried to find a place to put the trash, but the bins were full and the dishwasher still had clean dishes inside. He opted for washing the bowl by hand instead. 

“Don’t call it the incident,” he squeezed the flattened box in between what he supposed was recyclables, “I haven’t yet. Maria has been absolutely unyielding. Making sure to vet him first, or more interrogation, depending how you look at it. But she got him another therapist, so that’s something.”

“Did the other one die, during the break in?” Natasha stuck her head out from behind the door, while putting pins in her hair. 

“No,” Steve drank the milk as he could not find a place in the fridge for it, “No, she didn’t die. But needed some therapy of her own, was the last I heard.” 

“Yeah,” Natasha walked from one room to another in her underwear, “Seeing Rumlow kill a bunch of your co-workers will do the trick.”

“So eh...” he stuck his hands in his pockets. 

“If you’re going to ask me about Clint and Sam, I’m going to stop you right there,” Natasha said from within the room, “I know they are alive and still on task. That’s as far as the information goes.”

“Shit,” Steve took a deep breath, “I have the fullest confidence in their abilities, but this waiting around for them is very taxing. I’m usually the one in the fight, not waiting around for someone to come back, you know.”

“Yep,” Natasha came back out wrapped in some cozy clothes, complete with a wool winter sweater, “So am I. Let’s get going.”

They had to walk a block or two to get to the little bakery. Natasha wanted the pastries first and they’d get the coffee on the way back inside the Tower itself. 

“Clint says he likes the coffee ones,” she peered into the box, “Big surprise. But he always eats the one with almonds first, I don’t know why.”

Steve watched the people around them in a hurry to get out of the cold. Spring came and then they blasted back into winter again. The near budding leaves and flowers trembling on the branches. 

“You usually don’t want to talk about this stuff,” he said, weaving his arm through hers, “With me.”

“No, I don’t, I don’t even want to talk about it now,” Natasha shut the box and pulled him close, “But like you said, we’re usually the ones leaving and fighting. When we were on the mission, it was fine, but now we’re idle everything just screams at me that they are still out there, in the deep of it. Our roles are reversed and I never really thought about how he might feel about me being away for long stretches like this. It’s different.”

“Yeah,” Steve let his breath drift away, “Can’t say I enjoy it much.”

“Well you can’t sit still, if your life depended on it,” Natasha laughed, “You’ve got this whole plan of vets and POWs and meanwhile I’m sitting here eating cereal in my pajamas.”

“Well we’re different people, Nat, can’t expect us to handle our trauma in the same way.”

“What, are you quoting your therapist back at me?” 

“Nope, figured that one out all on my own,” Steve didn’t tell her he had finally been reading all those PTSD books Sam had been recommending him. 

Natasha scoffed and shook her head, “They are just feelings, they’ll pass.”

“Well I for one am very honored you decided to share those feelings with me.”

“And that was enough of that!” she quickly announced. 

They reached the Tower to purchase the hot chocolate and coffee and take a side corridor to the elevator. The floor that kept James had originally been part of more Avenger flooring, in case they found more super powered people. At least that was what Tony claimed. The speed at which he’d had the particular room renovated and reinforced seemed certainly impressive and Tony had talked about making it modular to accommodate all kinds of situations. It had appeared very pointless to Steve at first glance, but it served their purpose now. 

They reached the door to James’s room. It was soundproof, so Steve couldn’t hear anything from within. The guards on duty nodded at them, noting down their visits, even though Jarvis did the same in trifold. 

He pushed. The door stayed closed. 

“Hello Steve, Agent Romanoff,” Jarvis welcomed them and even got the guard to look up, “I’ve announced James of your arrival and he has made it known that he would like to abstain from this meeting.”

Steve froze up, clenching the tray of coffee in his hands. 

“Jarvis, is there something going on?” Natasha demanded and immediately shooed the guard away from behind his desk, “Show me the feed.”

“James does not feel up to meeting people as of this time, perhaps you could try again later,” Jarvis said, neutral as ever.

“I don’t need this vague civility, Jarvis,” Natasha sat down and tried to figure out what the feed was showing, “He’s just lying in bed.”

“Indeed he is, Natasha,” Jarvis confirmed. 

Steve set the coffee down on the desk and moved over to look at the screen. It was in infrared mode. He could see the bulk of James as he hid underneath the cover. The cupboard once filled with books was now empty. The table, chair and even the bathroom door had been taken away. A movie stood paused on the screen, one he didn’t recognize. 

“What, exactly, did he say?” Natasha looked up at Steve, her face shut down of any emotion. 

The second screen flickered on, showing the same image except the timestamp was from only five minutes ago. From the screen Jarvis announced that Steve and Natasha were on their way up. James didn’t move. 

“Jarvis, is that an order or a request?” James sounded muffled from underneath the blankets. 

“Neither, it is a statement. If you do not wish to see them, I can let them know and ask them to reconsider”

“Unless they put me on a mission or take me to the fucking chair to reset this fucking brain I do not wish to see them,” the small hill moved slightly and then fell silent again.

“Fuck,” Steve felt his heart drop, “Jarvis let me see him.”

“No Steve,” Natasha laid a hand on his arm. 

“Natasha, he wants us to fry his brain again,” Steve pulled himself away, “I don’t even know- He thinks what happened was his fault.”

“Steve,” she held out her hands and got up to block the door, “I understand that that’s painful, I do. But you have to let him go, right this moment you have to let loose.”

“What? Why?” Steve felt every muscle in his body tighten, “He’s family Natasha, you told me this. I want to help him like he’s family.”

“Then right now you need to let him have his autonomy. Remember Sam? Remember his therapist? Autonomy is important because he has none and he has wanted none, but right now-” she pointed to the door behind her, “Right now, he’s telling you a want. He’s showing you an emotion. This is big Steve, this is progress.”

“Progress? Natasha, he doesn’t want to see me!”

Steve felt his heart clench. He should at least get the chance to explain the situation. It was all a big misunderstanding. Everything was so delicate and he had tried so hard to keep conversations with James light and easy. Who knew what this therapist had been telling him. Maybe they were affiliated with Hydra, brainwashing him to get him back. 

“Steve, right now I can tell you, this is temporary, let him work on himself a little bit, get the facts straight,” she moved in slowly, her hands spread, “But you have to understand that as he becomes his own person, he might not want you to be part of his life and the best thing you can do is respect that.”

She closed her arms around him and pressed into the hug, leaning on her, “I don’t want that to happen.”

“I know, I know, that’s what makes all of this so complicated,” she held him tightly, before letting go, “Now let’s go eat these pastries and watch some more Spongebob. Maybe you can show me another way of dealing with all this shit.”

He let her go and he thought once more just to burst through the door and shake the man on the other side of it. He didn’t, he took a deep breath, raised his head and shoulders and grabbed the tray of coffee. 

Natasha made sure to turn to the guard who stood stiffly in the corner, “As for you, my dear friend, if you blab your mouth about what you saw just now I will bring you a little visit and skin you alive. Is that clear?”

She didn’t wait for a response before dragging Steve away. They spend the rest of the day on the couch, stuffing themselves with eclairs and pizza. 


	15. Chapter 15

James took a deep breath. And then another. And another. In through the nose, out through his mouth. His hand squeezed tight into his fist, tight enough to break the flesh of his hand. In and out. Letting the breath reach his toes and back again through his nose. 

The burning rage in his stomach did not recede.

He wasn’t even sure what had spurred his anger on. His capture was logical, they had given him so much freedom and they had taken it away after he lashed out. It didn’t matter that he didn’t know why he did what he did. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t meant to, that all he knew about the situation was that someone reached for him and would touch him. People touched him all the time. In addition to that Rogers had touched him all the time when he was Bucky Barnes. They touched all the time before and during the war. 

Now he blacked out anytime someone walked in the cell. Whether it be Hill or his new therapist. He only knew they had come by because Jarvis told him so, either before or after the fact. They spoke through video call. The question Wilson had asked months ago, seemed a lot more relevant. But even if he did have a preference, his body decided for him. 

It wasn’t logical, it wasn’t practical and he definitely didn’t want it. 

What he wanted was to be used. He was stuck in this tiny cell while his skills and muscled degraded to nothing. Shield was the most idiotic organisation if they kept one of the best assassins in the world locked up in this tiny room while his brain slowly rotted away by boredom. He used to be good at waiting, but he had limits. Catch enough bullets and he would die. Simple. 

Besides that he wanted the books back. He wanted to read, drink coffee and maybe take a few photographs. Together with Rogers, or alone. He wasn’t picky on that, or his subject matter. 

“Shall I put on another movie, James?” Jarvis asked, his only company. 

He hadn’t even noticed the movie had ended and that he was staring into space, waiting. Waiting for this to pass, something to happen, this all to be over. 

“Jarvis, how long until my next appointment with doctor Elena.”

“Your next scheduled appointment is tomorrow at noon, James,” Jarvis said, “But she is always available in case of emergency.”

This wasn’t an emergency. No kind of emergency could happen here at Stark’s Tower. The security was too great. Jarvis as the all seeing eye. Like the eye of Sauron from the books he read. He’d watched the corresponding movies at Jarvis’s advice and couldn’t tell if he liked them better or less. 

Frustrated he got up and walked a few circles in his room, which had a lot more room now with the table and chair removed. He didn’t want to push it so far again that it made the Black Widow check up on him, such a display would do nothing to reinstate any sort of trust. They hadn’t moved him yet, so either they weren’t capable or still believed they could condition him properly. He needed to become better. 

“Might I suggest that you call someone else, if you wish to talk,” Jarvis offered. 

“I want to break somebody’s neck,” he hissed. 

He didn’t really. But his hands, both real and phantom burned and it was the only thing he could think of that could ease the pain.

The blankness that came after murder seemed welcoming right now. A successful mission and then the blissful, dead sleep of cryo. 

“If the exercise doesn’t help, talking about feelings seems an option a lot of people utilize to work through certain emotions,” Jarvis continued unhelpfully, “Have you tried taking a long warm shower. The scents of the body wash are especially chosen to help relax and destress.”

He huffed, stomped to the bathroom and took a two minute shower. It did not help. Now he was agitated and clammy. 

“Jarvis, any other ideas?” he snapped and kicked the underside of the bed.

He could rip it out and bash it to the window. It wouldn’t break, he was sure of that, but maybe it would do something. “Ms Potts follows a strict yoga routine to help her to destress and calm down. Meditation and mindfulness, which is linked to yoga, are useful tools to gain insight into the self and gain perspective.”

“Yoga? What the hell is that,” James found he didn’t care about the answer, “Nevermind, how do I do it?”

“I’ll start an instructional video.”

The lights in the room colored slightly lilac and a video started on the screen. A woman sat on a mat, legs crossed welcoming the viewer to another session. She moved fast, folding herself into shapes and knots that were sometimes impossible with his missing arm, sometimes impossible due to his lower flexibility levels. Sometimes he’d push himself and here the bones pop. At the end of a two hour long stretch she told him to lay down, close his eyes and let his whole body relax. He could not relax. 

He sat up, “Jarvis, please stop the playback.” 

“Of course, James,” the screen disappeared immediately, “Was it not helpful?”

“No,” James pushed hard through his hair and got stuck in the tangles, “Can I request a video call with Sam Wilson?”

There was no guarantee that talking to Wilson would change anything. He didn’t necessarily want to call him. He wanted to get rid of the feeling. He wanted to get back to the book he was reading before everything got taken away. Wilson had made it happen. Wilson had some kind of sway over Hill that he could use. 

“Sam is not available at the moment, can I contact someone else for you?”

He pressed his face into his hands, “When will he be available?”

“It is unknown at this time, James,” Jarvis said almost sympathetically, “He and Clint are undisposed until further notice.”

That meant a mission. He wondered if Jarvis knew the details, if somehow he could hack the AI into telling him. James thought the possibility slim. 

“All other Avengers are present in the building, except for Natasha who is out on an errant.” 

A little mission of her own, perhaps, she would always have at least one pan on the stove. 

Again he wondered if conversing with someone real might actually make a difference. Surely the AI was advanced enough to be a substitute.

“What’s the difference with a real person, compared to you?”

“Though I am a very complex being, I might not be able to bring a unique human touch that might be required to ease the anguish you are dealing with.”

“Anguish? I’m furious, I feel it raging! And I can’t do anything about it!” James shouted, “This isn’t functional, what use is this emotion while I’m locked up in this tiny little room!”

“That does seem highly impractical,” Jarvis offered meekly, “I can have someone bring up a calming cup of tea. Valerian is known to have calming properties to promote sleep.”

“Like my metabolism will have any use for that,” James got up again, shaking the cramp out of his hand.

Moment by moment the idea to just exhaust himself was more appealing. Let Romanoff come and see him choke on the floor. She might think less of him, but it was better than this inferno inside him. He kicked the bed again, tempted to keep kicking. Instead he started his routine again. Skipping the walking, increasing his sit-ups and one armed push-ups. As long as he kept moving, he kept his mind distracted.

Hours later and the plastic floor beneath him was covered in his sweat. He dropped down in it, feeling the vertigo swirl around him. He hadn’t reached the nausea quite yet, though he had no interest in testing his stomach with the dinner that Jarvis offered. For a moment he stared up at the ceiling, breathing into it, reaching out to the heavy weight in him. It had simmered down, but the more he paid attention to it, the more it lit up, catching fire yet again. 

He covered his face with his trembling hand. Soon it would be night and then day and it would never end.

“Enough of this,” he snapped, “Jarvis, connect me to Elena. She’s the doctor, this is her problem.”

⁂

He told Jarvis that he didn’t want to talk to Romanoff, but they ignored his wants this time. He knew they wouldn’t really matter. They were holding him, he was their prisoner, why they had thought it a good idea to tell him to express his wants was beyond him.

“James, Ты выглядишь раздраженным. Не хочешь рассказать мне, что происходит?” Romanoff had chosen the safety of video calling, but looked worried, not afraid or fed-up like Elena and Hill.

“What’s going on is that you keep me in here, wasting away, Маленький паук,” he jabbed his finger at the screen, “You want me to work for Shield? You want me to kill Hydra? I’ll do that, I’ll murder every single one of them, but you keep me here with vague instructions to ‘become better’ to become ‘good’. I’m already the best, if you just put me back in that chair, be done with this nonsense.”

Romanoff pursed her lips, her eyes unyielding. She stayed quiet.

“Yes? Are we done?” he paced around the room, “I hurt people, that’s what I do, that’s what I’m good at.”

“Is that what you want?” she asked.

“This again?” he snapped, “Who cares what I want? Why does it matter? Want has absolutely nothing to do with it.”

“Maybe not,” she cocked her eyebrows briefly, “What if it did matter?”

“I’m not going to entertain you with useless hypotheticals.”

“Shouldn’t you at least consider all the options?”

“I did and I got sick of it. Literally sick,” he grabbed a handful of hair and pulled it sharply, “You want me to play along, put me back in the chair and I’ll play along very nicely.”

“I’m sure you will,” Natasha tapped a finger against her lips, “Here I thought it would be easier to persuade you with some books. What were you reading? American Psycho?”

He was not, in fact, reading a book by that name and considered it another gripe at him.

“What are you getting at? What do you want from me?”

Natasha took a sip from a cup positioned off screen, “I want to give you the books back, but you’ll have to want them.”

“And what do you need me to do?”

“Simple, stop chewing out your therapist. And me, for that matter, I don’t care for that tone.”

“You don’t get it do you? If you want that, then put me in that fucking chair. You’ll have your soldier back!”

She shook her head, “There are other ways to deal with your trauma.”

“I did it all, I tried the exercise, the yoga, the showers and the talking. Endless talking. I’m done talking,”

“How about making some pictures?” she coined, snapping an invisible camera with her fingers.

“You don’t allow me the camera,” James rolled his eyes.

“If you let me and Steve in, we’ll be more than happy to let you snap anything you want,” she smiled so sweetly. 

“That was exactly what went wrong, isn’t it,” James couldn’t believe their stupidity.

“What went wrong last time is that you had an extreme trigger response to being touched, due to Hydra torturing you for seventy odd years,” she sang, waggling her finger, “He knows better now, so do you, so do we.”

“I can handle being touched,” James grinned the foulest grin, “Come in here and I’ll show it to you.”

“You really want to fight?” Romanoff looked bored now, leaning back in her chair, “Do you really want to murder and maim? Is that who James is?”

He had no idea who James was. They never told him who he was supposed to be, what he was supposed to do or want. 

“You know what I think?” Romanoff leaned forward, close to the camera, “I think this is the first time you’re feeling a genuine emotion and dealing with it is so out of your skill set that you fall back on what Hydra did to you.”

He clamped his hand hard into his back, ignoring the pulsating beat behind his eye. He couldn’t flinch now. Not under her extreme scrutiny.

“So this is what we’re going to do instead,” she leaned her head on her hand, twirling her hair between her fingers, “Steve and I will come by tomorrow, coffee and cake, at noon. You two will shoot some pictures and I’ll sit there doing absolutely nothing, up until the point you lose control again. Then I’ll be there to protect him from you. Capisce?”

“And I’ll get Wilson’s books?” he felt the sweat break on his brow.

“And if all goes well,” she smiled triumphant, “You’ll get your books.”

With a short wiggle of her fingers she waved goodbye and shut the connection. Leaving James in the darkened room, his body still raging with excess energy, now joined by the acid anxiety of his stomach toppling. This would not be a pleasant night.

Jarvis announced their presence the next day. He had showered, he had combed his fingers through his hair and pulled on a new tunic. It was already rank with stress sweat. He hadn’t wanted to add to it by exercising more, just in the hope that it would bring his panic response down. Instead he had been walking low-paced circles continuously the entire morning.

Romanoff came in first and he nearly backed-up into the bathroom. She only nodded, took a step aside and made room for Rogers who looked like a kicked dog,

“Geez James, I’m so sorry,” Rogers kept his distance too, but held up a bakery box and a tray of coffee, “I should’ve known better, thanks for agreeing to let us in.”

“Wasn’t much of a choice,” he looked at Romanoff who leaned against the far wall, pretending to be interested in her nails.

She wasn’t, He recognized the pure observation mode she was in. Rogers carefully stepped in the middle of the room, staring at where the table had been.

“Guess we can use the floor,” he promptly sat down in the middle, setting out the coffee and opening the box, “Am I the only one who’s going to sit?”

James only stared at Romanoff, she didn’t move either. Sitting sounded pretty good though, with the way his nausea made the room spin around him.

“I mean you too Nat, you’re not going to stand there in the corner like some second-grade security guard,” Rogers flipped the lid from the coffees.

Her movement made him jump, but she completely disregarded his twitchiness, “Sure thing, Cap.”

“Since when do you call me Cap?” Rogers made it sound like he hated the monniker.

“Since now,” Romanoff sat against the wall, having vision of the exit and James, “What have we got?”

“Rum-raisin, red velvet, lavender and vanilla, cream cheese and raspberry, pineapple, macha, the whole lot.”

“Rum-raisin? Did you pick this? Careful, Cap, your age is showing.”

James thought the sight absurd. Captain America and Black Widow sitting on the ground of a cell to eat pastries and drink coffee. He had attacked them. He had shot them. He had hurt them.

“You want to take a picture of this?” Rogers gave him a hopeful look and pulled out the camera Stark had made.

James felt his nausea swell with the only step he needed to make to close the distance. It cost him all his focus to not buckle underneath the weight of him. Romanoff had wrapped her hands around a cup, blowing softly, showing it was hot. A warning.

“They use chemicals to get these amazing bright colors,” Rogers explained, motioning to the cakes, “I’d say it’s very photogenic.”

He held the camera out for James to take. It felt wrong, with Romanoff there, like she disapproved of every motion he made and would pull out the shock baton at any moment. No doubt she was carrying one, alongside that nine millimeter.

“I also got coffee, something new, like we said,” Rogers pointed to a cup with his name on it, “To be honest, I'm not really sure what’s in it, something espresso, white chocolate something something. If it’s too sweet for you, you can have mine.”

“Okay,” James felt the sudden need to throw everything, fling the cakes at the wall, kick over the coffee, smack that grin off of Romanoff’s face while he’s at it.

Instead, he changed some settings on the camera, “Jarvis, the lights please.”

The harsh overhead lights filtered to something bright but dispersed, indirect. Light from a kitchen window on an overcast day, the clouds as white as cotton. It reduced his own cast shadow as he leaned over the box to make a picture. 

The colors shone sharply on the small camera screen, Red, green, soft vanilla bean yellow, lilac from the lavender cake. It was all wrong. It felt mundane and just as meaningless as sitting here with these two superheroes. 

It was making him feel sick. He tossed the camera back to Rogers, got up and sped to the bathroom to throw up nothing at all. 

He heard Rogers come in, the heavy footfall echoed on the tiles. He spat and pulled himself up to drink from the tap.

“No good, huh?” Rogers made sure to stand near the wall, to not block the doorway directly. 

He wanted to say something about it, but couldn’t find the words and shook his head.

Rogers sighed, his shoulders sagging, his bottom lip nearly trembled. 

“There is so much pressure,” he whispered, hoping Romanoff would not pick up on it, “I’m going to explode.”

Rogers nodded gravely, as if he knew exactly what he was talking about. 

“I run a lot, just miles and miles,” Rogers gave in his own hushed tone, “I break punching bag after bag and it doesn’t help,” he tapped his own chest, “‘Try art’ they tell me, ‘You used to draw, make art’.”

James clamped himself down on the sink, for fear of breaking everything. Rogers had shoved his hands underneath his arms, his face grim. As grim as when he saw his Bucky Barnes shoot him in the chest.

“I tried,” he scoffed, “Once. I drew you. The Winter Soldier. And now I can’t pick up a pencil for fear that is the only thing that comes out of me.”

James wondered why he just didn’t let it all out. It sounded like a great idea. To take a picture of Rogers. Hold him in the crosshair, take aim and fire. Finish his mission, but not. There would just be a print of Rogers likeness, he could delete it from the camera and do it again.

“Can I shoot you?” he asked and immediately heard Romanoff get into action, “I mean, take a picture.”

Rogers blinked, got distracted briefly by Romanoff who appeared in the doorway, blocking them in. 

“Yes of course. Any way you want.”

“Let's have some coffee first, boys, it's getting cold,” she leaned against the door as if she'd come in for completely casual reasons.

They had coffee while James played with the camera, trying out settings and ordering Jarvis around for different lighting. He made sure never to point the camera at Romanoff. Always down, or at the wall behind him.

He ate one of the cakes, the red one but didn't have an opinion about it, while Romanoff and Rogers discussed the various tastes and differences. Eventually deeming the lavender one too weird and the raspberry one the ultimate winner. Rogers still liked the raisin one a lot too, but after Romanoff’s banter, didn’t want to admit it anymore.

“I'm ready,” he deemed, though his hand was still shaking.

Something inside him was vibrating in anticipation. He wasn't sure it was different from the restlessness he had been feeling up until now. But he was at his wits end and this felt promising. 

“So what's the plan?” Rogers asked, elated. 

“I'll use the bed for support,” he held his shaking hand up, “From there, the corner near the door is an ideal location.”

Rogers looked around and got up to move, “I guess it's better if I sit down.”

“Yes,” James moved to the end of the bed, dumping the duvet off the bed, “Would it be possible for Romanoff to leave.”

She laughed at that, heartily, “She you don't want to take my picture? I'm devastated, but alas, I have to stay.”

“Stand on the side,” James had rather she was out of field of vision completely, but that was a no-go from his part either.

“Aye aye, Captain,” she moved to the other corner, eyes sharp.

“Do you want me to smile, or-” Rogers started.

“No,” James cut him off, “Stay still.”

James took a deep breath, looked at Rogers again and felt his heartbeat rise. With a shake of his head, he knelt down, set the camera on the elevation and scoped out his target.

Target identified and in range. No side winds or obstructions. A clear path. 

He breathed into it, lowering his heart rate, growing completely still. The tremble in his hand lessened, until his hand became firm and certain. His whole body a tool, an extension of the rifle. His eye and the scope. His finger and the trigger.

“Steve, you know what he’s-” Romanoff moved slightly in his periphery, not yet a threat.

“Not right now, Nat,” Rogers told her while remaining perfectly still. 

The ghost confirmed his scope, confirmed the state of the trigger. His body completely in focus. He had one mission. His only purpose. What he was built for, made for. In control. Capable. Through the scope Rogers looked at him. His mission, his target. Facing his death head on, determined. The great Captain America. Steve Rogers. Steve.

His heart beat. Once, twice. He let go of his breath. He squeezed.

Two clicks.

One click.

Rogers didn’t die. 

James gulped for breath, pushed the camera away and sagged down onto the floor. He had no idea where the tears had come from, but he wiped them away.

“James!” Rogers rushed forward, arms reaching but stopped next to the bed.

He didn’t touch him again. James wasn’t sure if he didn’t want him to. If he didn’t need to. Just to check what was real.

“Geez,” Rogers shook his head, gripping the sheet on the mattress, “That was intense. Let’s see that picture, huh.”

James realized he hadn’t even seen it himself. He grasped for the camera, but Rogers got to it first. He held it positioned on the bed so they both could see. Three pictures of Rogers. Two were centered on his chest, the other on his face.

“Guess you really did shoot me,” Rogers’s face fell, the frown shadowing the blue in his eyes.

“I did,” James couldn’t stop wiping tears away, “But I didn’t kill you. I took your picture.”

Rogers’s face scrunched up more, his lip trembled and he looked up, eyes watery, “And it helped?”

James checked in with the feeling in his stomach. There was a whole lot more going on. He glanced at Romanoff, her face ashen.

“I don’t know,” he said, sniffing hard, “It’s different.”

⁂

It took awhile for Rogers and Romanoff to come back. He suspected they were kept away on missions or had better things to do with their time than spend it with him.

Meanwhile he saw Elena over video call. She was an older Latina woman whose dark hair was always tied up in a thick braid. She hardly smiled, unlike Ghufran, which made it harder to see if he was saying something correctly.

She didn't seem too concerned with whatever was happening with him right now, instead she found ways to always divert the topic to Hydra. Especially the early days, Bucky Barnes's time.

“I heard you got your books back,” she said as she checked her notes, “Were you allowed to read during your imprisonment?” 

“Yes,” he told her simply.

“What were you allowed to read?” she continued as if he was a child.

“Mission critical documents, statements, profiles, parameters, maps, transcripts.”

“And what about before they send you on missions?” she wrote something down on her computer.

“No,” James pushed his fingers in the blanket.

“Why not?”

“Because it was not deemed important,” he felt like he told her this before.

“And why was that?”

“It wasn't relevant,” he briefly wondered if taking pictures of her would help.

“Relevant to what?” She watched him closely, as if he was lying about something.

“Relevant to the creation and training of the Winter Soldier,” he had no reason to lie.

“I see, did you ask to become the Winter Soldier?”

James frowned at the question, “No.”

“Why was book reading not an aspect of the training you went through to become the Winter Soldier?”

His head had already felt tight and now it started to throb, “You should ask them, but I assume they didn't like me having interests besides the job.”

Elena cocked her eyebrow, “Do you think this interest would impede with a mission now?”

He squinted through the pressure, “No.”

“What's the difference now?” she wrapped her fingers together.

“Now I get to read,” he explained, maybe she thought he was stupid.

“So if you don't think that reading impedes with your abilities, why would they deny you those books?”

“Because they were exerting their control,” he didn't really want to hypothesize what they were trying to achieve.

What mattered was that they had done it and it worked.

“Does that mean you were unwilling to cooperate?”

“No,” he pressed his hand to his head briefly, "That was me before, that was Bucky Barnes. I would do anything they asked."

She watched him for a moment, “And you are not Bucky Barnes.”

“My name is James,” he told her, just like their first meeting.

“Who is not the same as Bucky?” she pressed.

The hurt was making it very hard to answer, or hold eye contact. He breathed, somehow. Rubbing his forehead.

Jarvis dimmed the light in the room.

“Do you need me to be Bucky Barnes?” he wasn't sure if he could pull it off right now, but orders were orders.

“No, I need you to be yourself,” Elena leaned forward, her screen unfocused and refocused again, “Do you have an answer?”

James forced himself to sit-up, “No.”

“Okay,” she didn't laugh or frown, just leaned back in her chair, “There are no right or wrong answers, that’s clear, correct?”

“Yes,” he wanted to know the time, but the screen didn't show it.

He wanted it to be done.

“Who is Bucky to you?” she asked instead.

“Born in 1916 of Winifred and George Barnes-” he knew how to recite this part particularly well due to Hill.

“No, this is just the history," she cut him off, “What does Bucky mean to James.”

“I don't,” he had to stop to breathe, “I don't understand the question.”

“What is your relationship with him? Is he a friend or an enemy, someone you look up to or down at, what feelings arise when you think about him?” she swirled her hand around, “How important is he to who you are?”

“I don’t know how to answer that,” he didn’t know how to answer anything anymore.

“Let’s see, for example, I’m your therapist. We have a professional and courteous relationship. You seem to think I ask repeating and annoying questions. Maybe you think I’m redundant or worthless. I’m not sure, you haven’t told me how you feel about me, but that’s the gist.” 

“Bucky Barnes, he-” James covered his eyes, “He didn’t want to follow Hydra’s orders. So…”

“So?”

His breath stuttered, “So it took a long time to deal with that. He’s dead. I think he died when he fell off that train and- And once again when they beat the life out of him.”

“When he died, when did you appear?”

“I didn’t, I-” he pressed his hand down, hard, onto the mattress, “No, they first created the soldier."

"The Winter Soldier," she repeated again.

“No, that’s what they called me,” he wondered briefly if Hill or Natasha were listening in on these conversations, “What they called all of me.”

“All of you?” Elena wrote more down, “Do you mean there are multiple of you or the whole of you?”

James wasn’t sure if there was a difference, “Both? I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” it didn’t sound like it was okay at all, “Tell me about the others.”

“First was the soldier, then they needed a ghost and later on came the spy,” he wondered if it mattered if he skipped the slave, “After Shield got me, there was the remnant and then I named myself James.”

“Is the remnant now called James?” she wrote down an awful lot of stuff.

“James is the Winter Soldier,” he bit his dry tongue, “I’m all of it. And more.”

James liked books and coffee and taking photographs of Rogers. 

“If you are all these aspects,” she made a circle with her finger, “Is Bucky part of you as well?”

He felt he had already answered this question, “I think Bucky died.”

“But you retain all his memories, everything he felt, everything he experienced.”

“Yes.”

“Then what’s the difference? Between the soldier or the spy and Bucky.”

“Bucky has no use,” he snapped at her and then wished he hadn’t, they might take away his books again.

“Why do you think Bucky has no use?”

“His shooting is mediocre, he cries and begs and gets himself captured by the enemy,” he tried to shrug, but his shoulder was already up to his ear, “Nobody wants me to be him, not even Rogers, so he has no use.”

“Were you not Bucky when you infiltrated the Avengers Tower? Was he not useful then?”

“No, I was the spy,” the pressure in his head was starting to get too much, “I only used my memories of being him.”

“Can you be Bucky now?”

He looked up at her, at the bright screen and her dark eyes staring right at him. The confirmation was already on his tongue, but now that she asked he wasn’t sure if he could. Bucky Barnes was dead. He had died after they had kicked and cut and held him under water. 

“I think he’s dead,” he told her, his stomach was doing some constricting that was increasingly uncomfortable, “I don’t know if I can.”

“Okay,” Elena moved back again and took her own sip of water, “If it’s possible, I’d like to meet him next week.”

“Understood,” his mind was bursting.

“Also, I’d like you to think harder on whether he might have had use after all,” she made note of that too, “Maybe his experience in wanting things, liking something or someone could be useful now. He was, in fact, human with a rich inner life. Try and find something that can help you now.”

“Understood,” he pressed his hand against his head again. 

He wanted this to be done, not to struggle with this anymore.

“I see you have a headache, make sure you drink some water and have a nap, I’ll see you next week James,” Elena always stared at him just before she disconnected. 

And when the screen finally went black, he let himself drop backwards, arm over his eyes.

“Jarvis, please turn the lights off completely.”

“Already done, James.”

It didn’t help much.

⁂

If it wasn't the burning rage, his head felt like it was splitting apart. He tried to do what she asked but he couldn't focus. Their meetings in between felt like a repetition of themselves, unfocused and laced with tension.

He wanted to see Rogers, he wanted to take pictures. Instead he buried himself in the books, reading nonstop one after the other.

They caught onto his sleep pattern as well and Elena wanted him to start sleeping full night's, make him sleep through the night and consequently the nightmares. He didn't get through to her that it was a bad idea.

“Sleeping is good,” she'd tell him, “This is when you process events and experiences, old and new.”

Which was when he got nightmares and she had yet to give him a compelling argument why he should endure them, but it was an order. So let himself fall into terrors each night and if he couldn’t, he’d read. 

But even books couldn't keep him distracted, while reading one called A Prayer for Owen Meany, he couldn't help but find similarities and differences between the friendship of Rogers and Bucky Barnes. Rogers was also weak and a lot poorer. They played baseball, went to the movies, ran around the neighborhood like they owned the place. Bucky Barnes went everywhere where Rogers went. No questions asked. Only undying loyalty. It got them into trouble most of the time, but Rogers's unyielding sense of justice never steered them wrong.

Eventually he just laid the book on his face and tried to find a memory that would show some value to Bucky Barnes. Retracing the childhood memories through their adulthood and into the war.

All he found was weaknesses, the inability to save himself and Rogers who followed him straight onto the field, into the fire, now with more reason to start a fight.

Rogers hadn't visited him since they made that picture, but if he could call Hill or Elena or even Wilson, he could call Rogers, worst case was that he wouldn’t pick up the phone.

“Jarvis, would you please connect me to Rogers?”

“Of course, James,” Jarvis said without delay.

He pushed himself up, kicking the duvet away, placing the book on the side.

It took a minute for Rogers to answer, when he did, he looked disheveled, alert but barely aware of his surroundings. Like he had just woken up. The room around him was dark, except for a single bedroom light.

“James!” Rogers too was sitting in bed, the blankets pooling around his waist, “What's going on, do you need me to come up? I can be there in ten minutes.”

“Can you tell me what Bucky Barnes was good at?” James moved to the edge of the bed.

“What?” Rogers looked suspended in motion and then sunk back down, “Where is this coming from?”

“It's an assignment from Elena,” he wasn't sure Rogers knew who that was, “The therapist, she told me to think back and think of how he might've been valuable.”

“Oh,” Rogers sat back scratching the bandages on his shoulder, “And won't it be cheating or something if I tell you what I think?”

James stared at him. He hadn't considered that. Would he fail the assignment if he asked Rogers's opinion on the matter. Was it important that he just realized Bucky Barnes's value or that he thought of something alone? She never did specify it.

“She didn't say I couldn't,” his stomach definitely did have an issue with that, but he'd been dealing with that for an eternity now.

“Okay, well, euhm I don't really know where to start,” Rogers winced due to the bruising on his face, “What I think are Buck's good aspects, right?”

“Yes,” James wished he had a notepad or tablet to write it down on, but maybe he could ask Jarvis for the recording.

“Bucky, to me, is- was loyal and kind, he managed to excel at anything he set his mind to. He was highly competitive, but always made sure to keep the peace. I guess he always made sure that everyone was comfortable, especially at Christmas, things were a mess, all sorts of family over the floor and me and my mom in between. He made it his business that everyone had the best time possible.”

James felt the onset of another headache coming on, like a band tightening around his head. Rogers was quiet for a moment, so it was good to wait.

“He was really good with his sisters,” Rogers's frown deepened, he let himself fall back against the headboard of the bed, “Taking care of them, being there for them, sometimes even more than their parents, I don't think he ever realized. Most brothers are a bit more hands-off, to Bucky, family always came first.”

James remembered the sisters, how they came to him for everything and he'd give it to them. Money, a shoulder to cry on, a date to a dance, whatever they needed. Whatever Steve needed too, he would've done absolutely anything for him. He did. He went to war for him.

“You were family too,” James couldn't focus, the screen blurred, Rogers just a smear of color.

“Yeah,” his voice just a soft drone, “We were like brothers. I think.”

Inseparable, his mother used to say, attached at the hip. Shared sodas on hot summer days, pitching snowballs in winter. They talked about love and hate and who would do the washing up that evening.

“And you thought it was good,” James let out, a hushed breath that slipped into the room and disappeared into the shadows.

“It was the best, he made me better than I could imagine to be,” Rogers picked at the tape on his bandages, “Maybe I'm just romanticizing the past, but I feel like I owe you and all POWs of Hydra,” he took a sharp breath, “But you specifically.”

“Because of family,” James pressed his nails harder into his fist, “They are all dead. You told me.”

Rogers shook his head, “I'm sorry.”

James mimicked the action. He wasn't Bucky Barnes. There was no benefit to meeting with any leftover family. Except Rogers.

“You are still alive,” he had pulled the trigger, the gun reverberating in his hand. 

He had taken the shot and Steve had not died. He had taken the photograph and Steve had not died.

“Am I family?” Steve asked and suddenly James saw him so clearly. 

The eyes shining, the crease in his brow, the fingers gripping into the sheets, the tousle of blond hair on his head. The big nose, the strong chin, the hopefulness that dripped off him like molasses, the absolute righteous desire that burned in his heart.

James didn’t know. He didn’t know what family meant. But Bucky Barnes did. The taking care of, the laughter, the pain, the sense of belonging. Since the beginning he felt an unmistakable resonance with Steve. A certain harmony that set everything wrong within him right. Sometimes it hurt, sometimes it felt better than he thought it would have.

“Yes,” he wanted to say more, but he didn’t know what.

“Fuck,” Steve’s voice trembled, he hastily wiped his cheeks, hiding the tears.

“You don’t want to be,” the crying certainly wasn’t a good sign.

“I already am,” Steve snorted a laugh, “Through better and through worse. It’s just very complicated, for me, but I... Family is never easy.” 

“Can I take your photo again?” James asked him.

“What? Now?” Steve gave a watery laugh, “It’s three in the morning, James, can it wait?”

“I won’t shoot you,” he probably needed to clarify that too, “It’ll be an alive one.”

Steve laughed properly at that, “Yeah, I sure hope so. I’ve done enough dying for sure.”

“So yes?”

“Yes, tomorrow,” Steve smiled, with his red eyes and bruised face, it looked rather comical, “I’ll need to bring someone too. Sit tight, I’ll come around noon again with more coffee.”

“Understood.”

“Thanks for calling, James,” Steve nearly blushed, “I’ll see you soon, good night.”

The connection shut off and James stared for a while at the blank wall in front of him. Maybe it was cheating, but he had something to tell Elena now. Bucky Barnes did have worth. Even right now. He could teach him about family.


	16. Chapter 16

Sam’s mission had imploded. Even Clint’s back-up and a strike team weren’t enough to make a successful extraction. It had turned into an immediate hostage situation. Steve, Natasha and Tony sat with Maria on the jet where she explained the latest info they had received. The compound was big but well hidden in the fields of Iowa and Hydra was on high alert in a ten kilometer radius. 

It was not an option to come in guns blazing. Hydra had contacted them, through rerouted phone calls and encrypted messages. They demanded everything from money to security to their complete surrender. All bluffs, but it nevertheless asked for extreme delicacy. It meant that Tony had to sit back until the gig was up, Steve didn't envy him at all.

Their plan was simple, to get in unnoticed, find Sam and Clint and free the hostages. Kill Rumlow on sight was always on the agenda.

Sometimes Steve thought if he too had been subjected to the chair, brainwashed to do Hydras bidding. But he didn't have the serum, he wouldn't be able to survive one session, let alone multiple. Conventional torture methods could've been enough, of course, but everything in his file had pointed to him joining Hydra voluntarily. No coercion or blackmail, just a simple conviction. Steve would probably still be tempted to ask, but only with his hand on the trigger.

Natasha and Steve dropped in the field near a dirt road leading to the facility. The sun hung heavy, already growing warm for the time of year. The field showed sprouts budding, giving them nothing to hide behind.

“Better find a truck we can hitch a ride in on,” Natasha said after contacting Maria to confirm their deployment.

“Won't that take too long?” Steve was sure he could cross the field in seconds flat, even with Natasha on his back.

“It'll be the safest route in,” she checked her handheld to scan the area, “There's a gas station just a few miles down, we'll need to stay off their cameras and sneak in the back of a vehicle. Who knows maybe we'll get lucky.”

They started their trek south, the sun blazing but the morning chill still nippy. 

“I've been thinking,” Natasha started and then gazed over the field to the horizon.

“Not too hard, I hope,” Steve grinned but felt the joke fall flat.

“Maybe I have,” Natasha increased her step, “I've been thinking about James.”

“Oh?” 

They had spent quite some time together after James's call. Natasha always joined them, observing, watching movies together, she was even tempted to make a picture of her own. Her own reflection transposed over the city skyline.

“I think I've been envious,” her step never wavered.

Unlike Steve who fell behind for just a step, “Envious?”

“Of James,” she glanced at him and then pointed at the small, rural gas station just down the road, “Let's approach it from the back.”

“If we hurry up we can still get on the back of that pick-up truck,” Steve instinctively lowered himself, “How are you jealous of James?”

“I reckon because he got everything that I would've wanted, when I came in,” Natasha said, checking her device to scan the perimeter again, “I did it all on my own, the hard part especially, and he gets it handed to him.”

They reached the station, pressing themselves to the walls and sticking to the pumps to get behind the truck. Natasha inched closer, while Steve kept on the lookout for the attendants and the owner of the car.

Natasha waved him over as soon as she got the backdoor open. With a deception sheet they remained invisible between the crates just in case someone were to inspect the car.

“But I know it's not easy for him either,” she whispered, as the truck started moving, “And not even this is perfect. But it's hard to see all the things handed to him, the books, the therapy, the kindness from you and Sam and now wish I had that too.”

Steve held his breath, keeping his voice low, “Would the Natasha from back then even accept any of that kindness?”

They sat side by side, quiet as mice as the truck stopped for the checkpoint. They heard men talking, footsteps outside, circling the truck. Natasha laid a hand on his arm as one of the men ripped the door open and shone a flashlight inside.

The door shut and the truck drove on.

“Probably not,” Natasha grinned, her voice barely there even for his super hearing, the truck stopped again, “On my count.”

They overtook the driver, relieving him of his own access card. They snuck around the loading bay, hiding from the guards and scoping the place.

Natasha motioned to the emergency staircase, where the guard had his back to the door. They incapacitated him in record time, hiding him behind the door. Hands and feet bound together. Natasha also emptied out his gun, but they couldn't take more gear with them. 

Their footsteps echoed through the empty staircase as they made their way downstairs, disabling camera and motion sensors as they passed them. Their last info from Sam and Clint had them stuck in the lower levels, near the surgical labs. Nothing promising.

Steve couldn't help but have vivid flashbacks to the time he stormed the Hydra facility in Azzano. Running through the entire building only to find Bucky tied to a table looped out of his mind.

To find Clint or Sam like that would be the final drop. Natasha might find herself practical and professionally detached in such a moment, Steve knew that his anger would get the best of him. And there won't be any possibility of just walking away.

After scouring the place they found Sam tied up in a small holding cell. Not unlike the tiny cupboard like places they stood in before, a bare windowless place with the drain in the middle of the room. He didn't waste time with pleasantries as Steve and Natasha opened the door.

“We need to get to Clint,” his voice was hoarse and there were dark circles below his eyes, “They are keeping him somewhere else.”

Somewhere an alarm started ringing, Natasha checked her handheld.

“We better start moving,” she cocked an eyebrow, “Let's get us some back-up first.”

She jogged back to the console, where a guard took an enforced power nap. She started fiddling around with the controls.

“I can’t believe you snuck in here undetected,” Sam shook his head and scratched his beard, “We need to train our strike team better.”

“You mean the one led by Clint,” Steve laughed and patted him on the shoulder, “Any idea where the armory is?”

“Not in these cells, that’s for sure,” Sam walked to Natasha to get the guards gun. 

The men and women held in the cells came out weary and fatigued. They immediately recognized Natasha and Steve’s command as they started handing out earpieces. 

“Tony’s still on standby?” Sam asked as he checked the chamber of the gun.

“Yep,” Natasha said even as she rounded up the strike team, “We need eyes on Clint first before we start bombarding the building.”

“Let’s split up, we'll cover more ground, I’ll take part of the strike team and take the upper floors,” Steve gave his two spare guns to two of the members.

“We need to get off this floor first, don’t we,” Natasha armed some of her team as well. 

“We’re surrounded,” said a woman who took lookout.

Steve only grinned. He was looking forward to a good brawl. Natasha used her scanner to scout out their opposition on the corridors. Steve took point in the meantime. They could have a machine gun on the other side, but it wouldn’t do much against his shield. 

“We’ve got seventeen hostiles, closing in,” Natasha called out.

As soon as they opened the door, it wasn’t a barrage of firearms but claws and teeth and metal limbs charging at them. Steve felt comfortable fighting these opponents now, using his shield as a battering ram to cut a path and distract, while Natasha and the rest of their team grabbed the stranglers. 

He flipped and dodged past the reaching claws, as he slammed his shield in between the joints of the metal limbs. It didn’t stop them from trying to fight, but it rendered them mostly harmless. To Steve in any case. They struggled to reach the elevator. With every punch to the head or solar plexus, Steve couldn’t help but think about what kind of situation these people were in before they signed up to join Hydra. Alone, abandoned and hopeless. Natasha made it crystal clear. She didn’t get a helping hand, or a kind voice. She broke out of clutches of the Red Room all on her own strength. These people might’ve been thinking the same thing as they joined Hydra. 

A few shots called out and everything fell silent. Steve looked back to the certain carnage. Unconscious men and women littered the corridor, their legs or arms broken, some bleeding, some dead. Natasha didn’t bat an eye, she round up her team and they moved back through the corridors. 

“Get a move on, Captain,” she spoke over the comm as they disappeared behind the door, “We’re on a timer now.”

“Roger that,” he took a deep breath, gathered his own group and made way to the stairwell. They climbed two floors, catching a few Hydra guards. He shot them, right between the eyes, they dropped like puppets. The floor above was mostly made of labs and offices. They found several very nervous scientists and lab assistants, some of whom also tried to fight, each of them carrying guns. 

“What are they holding over you?” Steve asked a woman, her blonde hair falling in a clump from her updo.

She only spat in his face, “Hail Hydra,” bit on her cyanide capsule and died.

“Captain,” someone from the strike team glanced anxiously around the lab, “They were working on a berserker gas, to coincide with the animal limbs. You might be immune, but we’re not. I’d suggest we keep moving.”

Steve nodded, this would be for Shield to clean up. They made their way to the operating rooms. 

As Hydra realized they were compromised, in every sense of the word, they spent a lot of time hiding their tracks with very little care for their own well being. As soon as Steve arrived it became clear the surgeries would be a lost cause. Flames licked on the inside of the rooms, spreading to the corridors. Thick smoke slid over the ceiling. People inside were screaming.

“Widow, tell me you got him,” Steve tried to comms while motioning the team back away towards the stairs, “They set the place on fire, we need to get out.”

“Negative, Captain,” she sounded out of breath, “Keep looking.”

He recognized the simple order for what it really was. A plea to find him. He told the strike team to make their way to the surface. They hesitated, but most of them were already coughing their lungs out, holding their shirts in front of their faces to block out the smoke. Steve didn’t wait for them to get their acts together, he held up his shield and tried to keep the swing door whole as he pushed through.

The fire slammed on his face, the shield in his hand heating up. It was getting hard to breathe and he opted for holding it instead. Vaguely he also made a mental note to ask Tony to give the outfit a pair of goggles. The few offices that bordered the actual operating rooms caught the most of it. He spotted bodies lying on the floor, some Hydra personnel, still squirming between the flames. 

The prepping rooms weren’t much better off, but it was clear the fire hadn’t started there. He found a woman huddled up in a supply closet, unconscious. She was wearing a hospital gown, her two legs set missing, one replaced with metal, the other only a stump. He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder. Then dashed forward. 

He found Clint tied to an operating table, mask over his face, the skin on his arm peeled back and left open. There was no one else around. At least he was still breathing, the oxygen machine helped keep the smoke at bay. There were also no metal limbs, though they certainly did have some nefarious plan. 

As best he could, he wrapped some pressure bandage on the open wound, unhooked him from all the machinery and slung him over his other shoulder.

“Widow,” he coughed heavily with his first inhalation of smoke.

“Did you find him?” Natasha crackled over the comm.

“Yes,” he coughed more, hardly getting any proper breath in as he made his way back through the flames.

They had spread around more so, melting the green linoleum on the floor, grasping at the concrete walls and furniture cast about the place. It stank, choking him. The door he bashed through already halfway to ashes. It burned as he kicked the door down, nearly losing his balance to oxygen loss. 

“Cap, the building is bound to collapse,” Sam rushed in his ear, “How far along are you?”

He failed to answer through the massive coughing fit.

It only slowed him down to lean on one of the support pillars hot to the touch. He pushed himself forward, towards where the staircase was supposed to be. He could see nothing passing the sea of flames and tears.

The unconscious woman slid off his shoulder as he slammed through another door. He could hear voices shouting from above, hollow and stressed. The metal of the stairs hurt his hands, but he grabbed hold of the woman and Clint and pulled himself up. One step at the time he climbed the mountain. Step by step he reached the first landing, then the second.

Then the weight was lifted off his shoulder and he saw Natasha pull Clint away. Sam was immediately by his side, supporting him on his way to the jet. He didn’t see what happened to the woman or to any of the strike team or the rest of the compound. He stepped into the airplane and thought it would be a good idea to pass out for a while. 

Itching hands woke him up. The sun glaring in his eyes and burning his throat. The brightly lit hospital room was empty, outside the door he heard the soft murmur of nurses running around and attending to their residence. It sounded a lot busier than it normally was. 

“Ah look at that, the hero awakens,” Tony shook his little bag of nuts, “Welcome back.”

“Tony,” he coughed, his throat like scorched desert plains, “How did it go?”

He moved to sit up and started peeling at the bandages around his hands. 

“Better leave that on, crispy cream, you were basically burned to a cinder,” Tony hovered over by the window, looking over the skyline, “It went. As you can imagine. About as well as expected. I would’ve flown in sooner, ya know, if only I got the go ahead, but you were too busy coughing up your lungs and our little widow nearly found herself a real one, for once.”

“Clint’s okay?” he learned it was better to ignore all the gripes, especially when one of them was lying in a hospital bed.

“Clint’s absolutely doodely tip top fine,” Tony crunched on some nuts, “Seems timing was once again on your side, Cap, ironically considering. Being the man out of time and all, you and your friend getting time stolen and then getting it back by being just in time to catch the bus, or save the bird that fell from its nest. Something like that in any case.”

“So Clint’s fine?” Steve repeated and desperately looked around for a cup of water or anything to drink.

“Clint’s fine, that’s what I said,” Tony wandered to the door and waved over a nurse, “They cut up his arm some and he had some other ‘I'm a prisoner to an evil corporation’ quals, but nothing my team of experts can’t handle. Same for our other bird, before you ask. He’s already lounging on the sofa, calling his mom and everyone else on the list.”

The nurse came with a whole pitcher of water but only poured him a cup, she told him to take it easy, but he slammed it back and asked for more.

“And Natasha?” he finally ripped the bandage off his right hand, found the tender pink skin underneath, still grafting itself together and decided to leave it.

“She’s with her boo, which is why you have me,” Tony spread his hands and gave a little jazz shake, “Well, me and Ms Hill. She’ll meet you for debriefing as soon as you’re ready.”

Steve sank back into his pillows, “The debrief, of course.”

“Back to the grind, grandpa,” Tony tossed some more nuts in his mouth, “Also, Pepper wanted to see you about your whole asylum for the crooks ideas, real noble thing of you, as expected. We can combine it with that charity I set up, you know, the one for prosthetic limbs, since they all already got some and might need some declawing. Since the feral bit might take awhile.”

Steve blinked and coughed. Tony was hopping a bit on the balls of his feet, fiddling with the bouquet of flowers on the nightstand. 

“That’s actually a really great idea, Tony. Let’s do that.”

“Well don’t act so surprised, I’m the genius over here,” Tony whipped out his phone and started composing a message, “I’ll let Pepper know. We’ll be in touch, don’t call us we’ll call you. Actually, do call us. Don’t be a stranger. I’m doing way too many things at once and Pepper keeps telling me I need to take more breaks. You can come give your freezer friend a new arm too, it’s still ready downstairs, in the lab.”

“Maria, she-” Steve started and didn’t even want to think about getting James riled up enough for another brawl, but now with a new and improved Stark tech attached. 

“Maria, psht,” Tony moved towards the door, “She’s juggling way too much to be micromanaging your pet polar bear. Now, I also got a stew going and need to head off. See you around, Rogers.”

Steve watched him leave and wondered if he’d ever get used to Tony being Tony. The nurse came in with more water, but he figured he’d better get that meeting over with, the faster he could get things rolling the better. 

⁂

After the briefing and a big meal with a decent shower, Steve scheduled a meeting with Pepper. She was already way ahead of him, having meetings with sponsors, project managers, therapists and had her eye on some real estate in the New York state area. They could visit as soon as he was declared healthy and wasn’t needed on follow-up missions. Though Rumlow hadn’t been present at the compound, they had Sam and Clint, they did have some leads to follow up on. 

Just as Tony had said, Sam was in a video call in the lounge when Steve came in. Sam was desperately trying to steer away from the topic of his mission, unsuccessfully. They were bombarding him with questions and accusations on whether or not he should have let them know he was alive. 

Steve felt for the guy, but his chest pined. All his friends were in the same line of work, they would never chew him out like this. If he fell off the face of the earth, the chance was bigger that they’d find him than sit around and worry. Good, of course. But just like Natasha, he recognized the envious feeling over the normalcy. 

He decided to brew them a cup of coffee first. The kitchen being far away from the lounge that he couldn’t listen in on the conversation unless he really strained his ears. He struggled for a bit to open the canister of coffee, spilling all over the counter. He sighed, staring out over the city, the late afternoon clouds hanging gray over the skyscrapers. 

Impatiently he peeled the bandages away but they revealed the same fleshy wounds of crumpled skin. He never noticed it getting that far. At least it didn’t come to skin grafts. 

Steve managed to set the coffee. It didn’t taste quite right but he never knew if it was the new age or him failing at operating the machine. Sam looked appreciative when he set the tray down on the coffee table. His mother still lecturing over the call. 

“Oh, look who it is,” Sam pulled him in by the arm before he got the chance to escape, “It’s Steve. Steve who looks much worse than I do and was only gone for an afternoon or something.”

“Steve!” Maddie gasped, the screen shuffled and now also showed Aliyah’s shocked face as well, “You two are grown men, I have to be sure that you two can take care of yourselves! Seeing this, it’s clearly not the case!”

“It looks a lot worse than it is,” Steve coughed with a sheepish smile, “And I heal fast, it’ll be gone in a day.”

“Gone in a day,” Maddie shook her head, “And the mind scars? The nightmares? The way it takes you back when you touch a hot pot or see a candle.”

“Momma, if you try to use my own psychobabble against me, I swear to my grandpa’s grave I will not bring Steve coming Easter!” Sam exclaimed, rubbing through his long hair. 

“Samuel!” Maddie scolded him, “Your grandfather’s grave? Well I certainly thought I raised you better than that-”

“No, no, no. From father’s side,” Sam intervened making grabby hands as Steve handed him the cup of coffee. 

“Well, that’s alright then,” Maddie sighed, “Well then I expect to see you two in a few weeks from now. But you keep texting and calling us, Sammy, no excuses, I will not stand for it.” 

“Yes, momma,” Sam grinned and leaned in, “Don’t worry grandpa was kind of a dick, so it’s okay if you got plans.”

“I’d love to be there,” Steve smiled feeling his skin pull tight. 

Sam waved goodbye and finally disconnected the call. He let out a hefty sigh, nearly sloshing the coffee. 

“That bad huh?” Steve asked, took a bite out of a biscuit and it scratched the whole way down. 

“I’ll be honest with you Steve,” Sam closed his eyes for a moment, “Turns out I was not cut out for this spy shit.”

“Just because you got caught? Sam, it was you-”

“No, no not just because I got found out,” Sam took a gulp of coffee and winced, “When I went along with you I thought getting back in the field was a necessity, but also like putting on an old pair of shoes. Familiar, you know? And it was good for a while, this excitement, the thrill of it. Doing good.”

“But…” Steve knew what was coming next.

“But, I think it was only that. Just a nostalgia trip or some closure or something,” Sam put his cup down, staring at the sky outside. 

It gently started to rain. Steve looked with him, nothing but a blank canvas. Unlike Steve, Sam did have a life besides the cause. His family, the VA, friends he had put on pause after they went rogue together. 

“Don’t get me wrong,” Sam hefted his hands but let them drop just as fast, “If there’s another alien invasion or you need to hide from the government again, I’m your man. But once we find that Rumlow bastard and stuff him in the lowest cellar I think I might head back.”

“To DC?” Steve swallowed hard. 

Sam nodded, “Family, friends, work. It’s not as fancy as living in Manhattan, but one can only take so much of Tony, am I right?”

“Well that goes without saying,” Steve grinned, patting Sam on the shoulder, “We better catch that bastard soon then.”

“I heard you have been busy too,” Sam grabbed a cookie from the plate and then another, “A house for vets and POWs, huh? What inspired you to do that? Was it James?”

Steve blinked at him and then felt his face flush, “Partially, I suppose,” he picked at the bandages, “Every time we’re down in a Hydra bunker fighting those metal enhanced people I can’t help but worry about what you said. Where they came from. How they volunteered.”

Sam raised his eyebrows with a knowing smirk. 

“I have so much money now and punching a bad guy only goes so far, you know,” Steve rubbed his itchy hands on the couch, “Especially when they are brainwashed or drugged or tortured into doing things they don’t stand for.”

“You think Rumlow is in that boat?”

Steve scoffed, “I actually thought about it,” he shook his head, “But I think that guy is just genuinely a piece of trash. Unless you found some evidence supporting the contrary.”

Sam shook his head, “They all talk about him being the next supreme leader or something, so it’s hard to say. He’s keeping his tracks very well hidden too. Got close to meeting him, but managed to duck out of the situation. Somehow I do think he’d recognize me before I got a shot.”

“We’ll catch him. Let’s rest up for now,” Steve cleared up the empty cups and brought the tray back to the kitchen. 

⁂

Steve brought Sam up to visit James a day later. He still had the bandages on his hands, but the burn on his face didn’t look as bad now. Sam sounded impressed when Steve told him about the therapy, the photo and them talking about family. He didn’t mention the part where they wrestled after Steve had tried to touch him. 

James stood in the middle of the room when the door opened, paperback book in his hand. Steve quickly made a picture when Sam walked in with a cheerful greeting. 

“What happened to your table?” Sam motioned to put the tray of coffee down where the table used to be. 

James glanced at Steve who grinned a bit sheepish. 

“They took it away,” James simply said, clutching the book. 

“Did something happen?” Sam tried to be casual, but didn’t quite hide his disapproving tone. 

“No,” Steve placed the camera on the bed and took his own coffee. 

“I lost control when Steve tried to touch me, broke the chair,” James set his book back on the shelf and pointed at the bathroom, “The door too. They took them.”

“Well,” Sam gave a fake cough, “That doesn’t sound like nothing to me. Steve.”

Steve just shrugged, “We worked it out.”

“That you did,” Sam held out the coffee for James, “How are you doing James?”

James opened his mouth, closed it and then brought the coffee to his lips, “Same but different.”

“Tell me about that,” Sam said, immediately interested, “Seems a lot has happened while I was away.”

James’s face pinched together and he squeezed his cup so tight that the lid popped off. Steve nearly had to laugh as he picked it up. 

“Sam, come on, he has a therapist to talk about that stuff,” he wanted to put the lid back, since James couldn’t do it, but decided better of it, “We’ve all had some busy weeks, let’s relax for a while.”

Sam chuckled and rubbed his freshly shorn head, “You’re right about that one. Just too bad I can’t sit anymore.”

“Sit here,” James pointed at the bed with his cup, nearly sloshing it all over.

His hand didn’t stop trembling. Again Steve felt the need to put the lid back on, but James just gulped down the coffee enough to prevent any mishaps. 

Sam sat down where offered and picked up the camera, “So you like making pictures, huh? You got any you’d like to show off?”

“Steve printed out some,” James finished his drink and crushed his cup, “He knows what’s good.”

“Can I look through them?” Sam asked. 

“Yes,” James scrunched up his nose again, “I want to take your picture too.”

“Oh!” Sam sounded delighted, “Yes of course.”

Steve grinned from ear to ear, taking his time with the coffee. The mood was a lot calmer in the room than when Natasha joined them. As if she scared him more. Or saw her more as a threat. With Sam there was no such tension and he felt like he could sit back and watch them all unwind. It filled his heart. 

“Jarvis, tell me the sun is shining,” Steve knocked on the wall where the window would be. 

Without a word Jarvis uncovered the window, showing the bright sharp blue of the New York sky. The piercing sun ready to thaw the frozen ground, awaken all the budding flowers and leaves. He could almost smell spring hanging in the air. 

He heard a click behind him and saw James balancing the camera on his knee to hold it steady. Taking pictures of him. He clicked a few more times and Steve felt his cheeks hurt from how hard he was smiling. James didn’t look at him, just at the little screen on the camera, showing to Sam how they turned out. 

“We should go outside,” Steve tapped the window, “I’ll talk to Maria about it. We can go to Central Park when the blossom starts, they have these entire rows of cherry blossom trees.”

James snapped to him, completely still, completely focused, “Now?”

Steve shook his head, “I’ll have to talk to Maria first, you know how she is, but I’ll convince her.”

“Steve,” Sam leaned forward on his knees, “Don’t go making promises you can’t keep.” 

“I’m not,” Steve snorted as he leaned against the wall by the window, “We have to move forward at some point. There is no rehabilitation in keeping him locked up all the time.”

“That’s fine, but let’s leave the pacing to the professionals,” Sam gathered their empty coffee cups and set them near the foot of the bed. 

“You mean Maria?” Steve scoffed, “She may be an expert on something, but I doubt she specializes in treating severe cPTSD and trauma victims.”

“Neither do you,” Sam pointed out, level and then sighed, “Look, Steve, please ask away. It would be good for you and for James as well to get some air, even if it’s just by opening a window. Just don’t tell it’s like it’s true, when you’re not sure.” 

“Yes, fine,” Steve took a deep breath and glanced outside again, opening a window did sound nice. 

It would be nicer than this recycled air all the time, get some real sunshine in the room. Even now the sun had already moved to the other side of the building. He’d drop the topic for James’s sake who had moved himself to the background, keeping his breathing light and shallow, head low and completely still on the bed. It took everything within Steve to not just go over there and shake him a good one. 

“James,” Sam said pointedly, waiting long enough to get eye contact, “You wanted to take my picture. Do you still want to do that?”

“Yes,” James didn’t move, his mouth hardly vocalizing the word. 

“Alright, we don’t want you to be uncomfortable,” Sam glanced at Steve, “You want either of us to leave?”

That resulted in a sharp intake and James immediately looked at Steve, “No.”

Sam patted the bed softly, his smile stiff, “Let’s take some photos.”

James loosened up, when they got on with the photoshoot. Commanding Steve to make decisions about the composition and the lighting. They decided to make use of the natural lighting and the cramped space, making some intense close-ups. 

“You made pictures of Natasha like that too?” Sam asked as they sat back on the bed. 

“No,” James went through the photos, frowning at each and everyone.

“You know how she is with that,” Steve leaned in and pointed at the screen, “Go back, that was a good one.”

“Why this one?” James squinted and held up the camera, but the shaking only became worse as he held it up. 

“Euhm,” Steve’s own hand hovered, “I think it’s because it’s not as symmetrical as the others. Symmetry is very calming, usually, so to have to have it just a tad off, makes a picture more dynamic. Just a bit more interesting to look at. And I like the fuzziness around the edges. It really makes his eyes intense. Like you’re really being stared at.”

James dropped the camera back on his lap and rubbed his eyes, “But other photo’s had those elements, so why this one?”

Steve shrugged a little helplessly, “It’s just my opinion, I suppose. I’m sure Sam thinks differently.”

“They all look really good to me to be honest,” Sam raised his hands, “Art is a difficult subject to master, because it’s so subjective. Exposure to all kinds of different things can cultivate your own sense.”

“I can bring you some art books,” Steve’s hand fluttered around before dropping back on the duvet, “I can’t believe I hadn’t thought of that before. You can see the great masters and learn from them.” 

“Yes,” James set the camera next to him, “Steve, is your want to touch me a Bucky Barnes thing?”

“What?” Steve sucked in a breath but felt no air in his lungs. 

Desperately he looked at Sam, since James’s face didn’t tell him anything to clarify the question. But Sam was just as surprised, his mouth pressed together tight. Steve decided to pull his hands on his lap. 

James was still waiting. He did not repeat the question. 

“Well,” Steve swallowed, tucking his hands underneath his arms, clamping down tight, “I don’t know? I think it’s a human thing.”

“You and him touched a lot before,” James said, still staring straight at him, “Do you and Sam touch?”

“We touch a moderate amount, like friends,” Sam helped out, “A pat on the back, a touch on the arm, things like that. It’s comforting.”

“You want to comfort me?” James asked, “Sam doesn’t do it.”

“Sam is just a lot better at controlling himself than I am,” Steve frowned, “He works with a lot of vets, who sometimes don’t want to be touched either. This is all pretty new to me.”

“Why do I need comfort?” James flipped to Sam. 

“Geez,” Sam searched the room for answers, “Well you went through a lot of traumatic shit, James, so sometimes when you fall quiet or look like you’re having a headache we want to help to alleviate the pain. Make you more comfortable.”

“And touching helps?”

“Touching is for a lot of things, but yes, it can help,” Sam grinned, “In this case, I think it’s for Steve himself too, touching you can help reduce his own stress levels.”

“Will it reduce the agitation?” James tapped his own chest, “Or help me sleep? Jarvis didn’t mention this.”

Steve felt his chest ache. Touching Bucky came as natural as breathing. Everyone in the twenty-first century seemed a bit handsoff compared to it. He considered himself lucky that Natasha seemed to invite it and Sam was comfortable enough to do it too. For James any touch came with the promise of violence. Even after Hydra, at Shield and here at the tower. No one touched him with care. 

“Do you want to try?” Sam asked, his brow pinched together. 

“Yes,” James said immediately, “Can Romanoff be here?”

“Natasha?” Steve wasn’t sure what to think of that, “You want to try it with her?”

“No,” James smiled something nasty, “I trust her to take me out if it goes badly.”

“Wow,” Sam huffed, his hand on his chest, “I’m hurt. Am I not enough?”

“No,” James simply said, not softening the blow.

Sam just laughed, “Alright, let’s see if Natasha is up for it. Jarvis, could you give her a call?”

“Of course, Sam,” Jarvis made the window opaque again, showing a small old time telephone ringing. 

Natasha didn’t answer with video, “Sam, what a delight, to what do I owe this pleasure.”

“Well Natasha,” Sam gave both Steve and James a long look, “We’re up here with James and he requested your presence for some security reasons.”

“Security?” Natasha cackled, “What’s that? Steve’s with you, right? Between the almighty Falcon and Captain America, you need protection of little ol’ me?”

“That’s the idea.”

Steve wasn’t sure if he was feeling excited or scared. He did notice that James beside him was getting more jittery with the second. Natasha wasn’t exactly a calming presence for him and neither was Steve himself, he reckoned. It might be a good chance that they had a lot riding on a simple touch of hands, especially considering that the first time it would just be a repeat of last time. 

“Well count me in, boys,” her smile apparent in her voice, “I’ll be right up.”

She cut the connection and Jarvis brought the stark blue sky back over the glittering skyline of New York City. 

“So what’s the plan?” Sam asked. 

James immediately looked at Steve. 

Sam took that as an answer, “You want him to touch you or the other way around? This is starting to sound a little…” Sam shook his head, “Nevermind that.”

“Let’s start with James taking my hand,” Steve suggested, “See if that works out.”

“Like a handshake,” James clarified.

Sam nodded, “Alright that sounds like a good plan. And because we don’t want a repeat of whatever little thing you guys had, know that you can tap out at any moment, no pressure, no judgement, understand?”

“Understood,” James said, sitting stiff as a board. 

“Have you talked with your therapist yet about recognizing the tells you can experience before it gets too much?” Sam continued. 

“Yes,” James stated just as curt. 

“Sam, come on, let’s lay off the therapy lesson, okay?” Steve grinned, he was feeling the tension. 

He hadn’t seen his own therapist in a while, either. 

“I’m just checking,” Sam leaned back a bit, “Trying to make it run smoothly, is all.”

They kept conversation light until Natasha showed up with the biggest grin on her face, “So what do you need my help with so desperately?”

“It’s a touch test, of sorts,” Sam tried, “James trusts you to stop him when he gets triggered.”

“Oh! Such flattery from the very own Winter Soldier,” she walked up to the window as Sam got up to join her, “Let’s see it then.”

Steve turned to James who was still looking at Sam and Natasha. They said no judging but it certainly had an atmosphere of being rated and sentenced for something. Steve let their looks roll off his back and kept his focus on himself and James. Trying to smile through the pounding in his chest. Picking at the bandages before holding his right hand face up. Inviting. 

James’s hand shook as he held it up, nowhere close yet. First he pushed his hand through his hair and scratched his beard. Then out of nowhere he shoved it in Steve’s hand, gripping tight. For a moment they just sat there, Steve sucking in air just wanting to ask so many questions, but having to bite his tongue to keep it all inside. A laugh bubbling up through the hammering of his heart. It even hurt a little bit, the bandages rubbing rough against the burn wounds. James only looked at their joined hands. 

“You’re hurt,” James remarked, looked up at Steve and his eyes widened in shock. 

“Just a bit,” Steve tried and didn’t want to feel so hurt when James yanked his hand back. 

“What the heck have you been doing?” James barked. 

“Have you had enough?” Sam asked softly, stepping forward. 

Natasha held him back and cocked her head knowingly. 

“It’ll heal, it’s fine,” Steve held his hands up, “It’s just a little bit itchy still.”

James was still breathing harshly, sucking in air like he was drowning. His own hand gripping tight into the duvet, pulling the fabric taut. Steve reached out to him again, but couldn’t touch, which was exactly how they ended up like this. 

Steve figured that was the end of it but James shot back up, pulled Steve’s hand closer and started peeling at medical tape. His empty shoulder twisting as if it wanted to get in on the action.

“Here,” Steve’s other hand hovered close, carefully, “Let me do it.”

Steve unwrapped his right hand, uncovering the healing wounds underneath. The skin was still blotted pink and fairly wrinkled, but there were no open wounds, it was well on its way to recovery. Again, Steve held his hand up, turning it around to show all sides. 

James's hand trembled still. but he didn’t hesitate to touch him again. He traced his fingers over the bunched up skin, going from the fingers dipping into the palm. It tickled. 

“How did this happen, don’t you have a team?” he grabbed hold of Steve’s wrist and held up the hand, “How did you let this happen?”

Sam let out a tense stream of air, leaning back out of the confrontation. 

“Those mission details are classified,” Natasha said sweetly, “But safe to say Steve was very heroic and saved lives with his little stunt. As always.”

“As always,” James muttered, turning back to the hand and then to Steve, “Wrap it back up.”

“Yes, sir!” Steve laughed and followed the instruction, “I’ll come by tomorrow again and you can see for yourself it’ll all be healed up.”

“Are we going to try it the other way around or is my presence not desired anymore?” Natasha inspected her nails as if she wasn’t enjoying this, “Or maybe try some different touches?”

“Different?” Steve frowned at her, but her grin only grew. 

“Me or Nat, for example,” Sam jabbed her in the ribs, “Or you touching James.” 

“Do it,” James interjected, clearly not willing to participate in their banter.

He held out his own hand, putting in a lot of force to hold it steady. The muscles in his shoulder and bicep straining. 

“Hey! So, not to point out the obvious,” Sam started, pushing himself off the wall, “James, you only have one arm. A pretty important and active instrumentation in your own agency. Handing it over for Steve to hold might add another level of discomfort. So maybe Nat is right, have Steve touch you somewhere else. Your shoulder, or, ehm, feet?”

Natasha burst out laughing, “Feet?” she hooted, “Is this something new, Sam? Do I have to update my records?”

“Woman, please,” Sam huffed, crossing his arms. 

James ignored them, dropping his hand back in his lap. Steve couldn’t help but feel some secondhand embarrassment, he wanted to reach for James’s hand again, but didn’t. 

“It’s up to you, bud,” Steve told him instead.

“It doesn’t matter,” James crushed his teeth together, but didn’t hold out his hand again, “I know repetition is required to reach the desired effect.”

Steve’s heart sank. Both Sam and Natasha grew silent too. The implication stifled the mood. Steve wanted it to be something miraculous, but of course it wasn’t going to happen. All the books he had been reading were saying the same thing. Time was a key aspect. Repetition as well. He had to relearn certain behaviours, bit by bit. It might never get better, just more manageable.

“Okay,” Steve held out his wrapped hand between then, “I’ll just lay it on your knee, to start with.”

“Which knee?” James asked immediately, his hand spasming. 

“Your left,” Steve decided and already lowered his hand.

“How long?” James snapped before Steve got within five inches.

“We don’t have to-” Sam started again. 

“I do,” James barked at the same time Natasha rolled her eyes and pushed Sam back. 

“How long?” James repeated. 

“Five seconds,” Steve figured that would be reasonable, but James didn’t look one bit at ease. 

“Just do it,” Natasha sighed. 

James nodded and Steve waved his hand one more time before lowering it gradually. To him it was significantly less momentus, but James seemed to hold his breath now. The moment Steve laid his hand down on the soft fabric of his tunic, James’s leg jerked away. Compared to the punch in the face, it was an improvement. 

“Do it again,” James forced his knee back. 

Again, Steve laid his hand down. Faster this time, anticipating the recoil and moving with it, counting to five in his head. Letting the heat sink in, proving that nothing was going to follow after. No violence, no other unwanted touching. James watched it with intense focus, not breathing, either waiting for something to happen from Steve or from himself. 

Nothing did. 

Then Steve let go. James didn’t move, still staring at his knee. Steve looked up at Sam and Natasha for help, but they weren’t any help. 

“Why is it a problem now?” James nearly whispered, “People touched me all the time.”

“Conditioning,” Natasha said simply, “You were taught the touch was necessary or functional. But it was never kind. It was violence. Done to you for so long that you forgot any other touch existed.”

James was silent for a while, breathing shallow, gently swaying. Then he looked up right at Steve, drew a deep breath and steadied himself. 

“Do it again.”

Steve nodded and laid his hand back on James’s left knee, counted to five, then let go. 

“I think we should get some more coffee,” Natasha pondered, “Get some chairs back in here.”

⁂

Pepper and the agent were showing him around a giant complex just on the border of Massachusetts. The agent was explaining everything about how it used to be an old farmhouse with a small cattle farm and could easily be repurposed. It wasn’t far from a lake and the forest served as a natural border. 

The sun was shining, the ground still crackled under his boots from the last night frost, but the sky was clear. He turned his face to the sun and took a large breath in. 

It didn’t take much to imagine what it could be like. A safe haven. Somewhere calm and distant from dark and damp cellars. The changing of the seasons, every year the joy of spring and brilliance of summer. Fall would bring them harvest. They could have a garden, maybe a few chickens. Busywork, at first maybe, but it would teach them something good could come from their hands, metal or otherwise. Steve could see it all. 

A shiver ran down his spine and he tucked his hands back deep in his pockets. He must have been wearing a dorky smile because Pepper’s eyes crinkled and she turned back to the agent. 

“We’ll take it.”

Steve wanted to do everything by hand, at first. Some kind of side project, keep his own hands busy while they were in between missions that were happening more plentifully, but not more effective in finding Rumlow. Pepper and later on Sam had to break it to him that renovating the barn was a bigger project for a super powered soldier who had no idea how to build anything. And they were right. Pepper helped him hire a team to design and eventually construct everything. 

When Tony got whiff of that part, he also started meddling, making adjustments to modernize it to the extreme. Part of Steve wanted to stop him, cut him off from any involvement, but Tony was the best to cover the security of the place. Maria had a thing to say about that too, using James as an example wherever she saw fit. 

It also brought him back to the therapist office. Asking how and where to find employees that would want to manage, treat and take care of people in such a facility. They were more than helpful and together with Pepper they started selecting, vetting and treating people. 

Steve found himself thinking about the project. What else needed doing or fantasizing about how it would help people. During meetings he would doodle sights of the building, the fire burning in the cosy living room with a reading nook for the residents, the large kitchen filled with fresh produce and eggs and milk for omelettes and pancakes. Thinking of seeing James there, finally at peace. 

When he visited James he showed him photos made on site, his ideas for hiking trails and places to just sit and be still with nature. Places for him to take pictures. 

“When you go there-” he said, flicking through the photos. 

“Will they relocate me there?” James cut him off, grabbing Steve’s hand to stop him. 

Steve had to think back. He was sure he had mentioned it to James, but as he thought about it, he might’ve just taken it as a given. 

“I mean,” Steve let his hand rest underneath James’s, “That’s the idea.”

“Understood.”

Emotions on James were mostly still a mystery. And maybe it was instinct or a bubbling in his gut that made him uneasy. 

“It’ll be much better than being cooped up in this tiny room,” Steve forced out a smile, “You can go outside, spend time with others. I don’t know, read all day or take pictures from everything around you. It’s so beautiful, my photos aren’t that good, but I’m sure you can do a lot more with it."

“Understood,” James said again, like it was an order.

“Is it something else you want?” Steve frowned. 

They were sitting next to each other on the bed and he wanted to lay his hand on his knee again. To reassure himself more than James. But even though they had been working on it, James still couldn’t handle it unprompted. Just physical closeness would have to do. 

“What I want doesn’t matter,” James said. 

“Of course it matters!” Steve protested, “That’s… This is all about that. To help people. To rehabilitate people. So they can want things, their own things and we can teach them how to get it. Not just missions, not just endless and meaningless violence in the service of some twisted ‘greater good’! What you want matters!”

James just stared at him, completely still. Steve was uncertain if he was explaining himself right. If it was reaching him at all. There wasn’t much of a reaction, even an unwilling one. 

“What do you want?” Steve asked, his heart squeezing tight. 

Let it be known he never lacked the courage to face his fears. He wanted this so fiercely for James that rejection would feel like failure. James had been the instigator for all of it. James had been in his mind as he walked along the ground, had been the silhouetted figure in his doodles. 

James, instead glanced at the upper corner of the room. Always aware of Jarvis, of the camera and Maria watching the recordings. 

“I’m more of a city slicker,” James gave the most Bucky-like smile that it was uncanny. 

Steve’s heart made a double flip and found himself unable to process any of it for a short moment. Unwittingly his hand raised, trying to catch it or reach out to it. Instead it hovered between them, like his breath stolen from his own body. 

James chuckled, grabbed the hand, shaking it about briefly and laid it back on the duvet. Holding it. His thumb moving from palm to wrist, pressing gently. Steve gaped like a goldfish. Something brought him back to that moment with Peggy, years ago but yesterday at the same time. 

“It’s not like I don’t appreciate it,” James let go to grab his cup of coffee and Steve’s hand went cold, “And like I said. I go where Shield wants me to go.”

Steve just nodded, hastily grabbing his own cup of coffee. 


	17. Chapter 17

James had asked his therapist about the hand holding and comforting touch and though she was surprised she had commended him. In her own way. Making a lot of notes about it. It hadn’t helped much, he felt. But it had been different. Like taking that first picture of Steve, but less cathartic. He had told Elena about that too and she was less enthusiastic about that. 

He was starting to keep things for himself too. Not only to see if he could lie about it and what the consequences would be. When he was alone and his mind was working along, he was making a plan. It involved going outside, out of reach of the tower, out of reach from Shield. Finding a crowded area and disappearing. 

The steps after that were a bit more muddled. Digging out trackers, losing his tail, never assume he would actually lose the tail, hiding, running, laying low. Giving up the soft bed, the showers, the books, the camera, the company. 

Giving up Steve. 

Sometimes he forced himself to be the ghost or the spy, forced himself to not care that he was worried about giving up Steve. But everytime the idea crossed his mind, or he reached that part in his mental plan his physical reaction was undeniable. The swerve of nausea that rocked him didn’t care when he was already lying down on his bed. 

Irony would have it that Steve’s remodelled barn would be the perfect way to set the plan in motion. Get shipped over there. Scope out the place, the perimeter, hack, destroy, omit whatever security necessary and vanish. Be the ghost, but as James. But it was easier to disappear in a city.. 

It might also be easier to disappear before he saw the place that Steve had created for him. The lake, the upcoming vegetable garden, the tree swing. It was all very idyllic. Something so unlike Bucky, but for James. 

Elena had asked him a few times to be Bucky and he wasn’t able to. Not really like he was supposed to. Sometimes he’d smile or flirt or be kind, like Steve said he was and she just was never really fooled. It felt like a futile exercise in any case. He knew what Bucky was good at, what his value had been, but James, the Winter Soldier, would never get that. The violence that was ingrained in him over the span of nearly seventy years far outweighed the twenty five years he had grown up to become Bucky. It would take long to learn the kindness and longer to unlearn the fury still burning in his bones. 

He wanted to get out of here before it burned Steve too.

Wilson visited him sometimes, with Steve or alone, telling him it was hard work, coming back from everything. Things similar to what he said when he was still the spy. That even now the conditions weren’t ideal, but they might never be. The best thing he could do was try again the day after and the day after that. 

All good intentions, of course, but James was starting to feel like he was listening to a repeating record. People telling him how it would be, what he should do in the same breath as they told him that he could be anything and he should make his own decisions. Barton told him stories about his childhood. Wacky adventures during his days with the circus. Stealing the ringmaster’s whip, pretending to fall off the piste only to grab hold of something and jump away, getting so drunk he stole the thunder from the on stage clowns. Sometimes Barton didn’t laugh when he told his stories, saying something about a child drinking, about finding family. How much Shield meant to him. Something about second chances, or even sometimes thirds. 

They were like stories from a book and one time he asked Barton if he made stuff up. Barton just laughed, real loud and then shook his head. Every single word was true. It made the stories in the books he read just that bit more real too. Things happened, people changed, there was a possibility for him to change as well. No matter how long it took. 

Hill was with them, when he set foot outside of the cell. His first instinct was to catalogue everything, from the door, to the security station, the nearly empty coffee cup and a half eaten bagel on the desk to the type of carpet and the duration of the elevator doors open and closing. It was so much information he nearly fell back into the Soldier. But there was Steve’s hand warm on his shoulder, telling him this was not a combat situation, they had already gone through everything that would happen and everything was going to be secure and safe. Nowhere to run or hide. 

Steve led him through the rooftop garden, between blooming roses and arched hedges, past birch trees filtering the sun light through leaves and blushing strawberries not yet ripe to eat. The overwhelming ratatouille of scents and colours and sounds were all familiar but at the same time he experienced them all for the first time in his life. Bucky never spent much time in the great outdoors, but the smell of dirt and trees brought him to Prospect park. The smell of roses took him back to a date and kissing her on the doorstep. At the sight of strawberries he could hear the chime of Neumann’s grocery store down the hall. The Winter Soldier never experienced any of it. Until now. 

While searching for value in Bucky Barnes, James hadn’t felt any connection when searching through the memories. The emotions were a disconnected statistic to the situation, a puppet flipping a mask, a character in a play. James wasn’t sure if it was the warm sun on his face or the firm grip of Steve’s hand in his, maybe the delicate scent of blossoms on the breeze or the gentle rustle of leaves that made the memories so much more profound. He remembered asking a girl out and feeling the fluttering nervousness as he waited for an answer. He remembered holding Becca in his arms and the steadfast compassion as she cried on his shoulder. He remembered being friends with Steve and the burning admiration and how that was no different than what he was feeling now. 

They sat for a long time overlooking the skyline, towards Brooklyn this time. Steve had pointed out the old neighborhood of where they lived, where the cinema was and that one time, how they took the subway all the way to Queens just to see what was there. Then he started telling of all the new places he visited, a brewery with some decent beer, amazing street art in Bushwick and a thousand quaint little shops, with some amazing coffee and pizza. 

After Steve was done talking they watched the sun go down and with each second it crawled closer to the horizon, James feared he couldn’t hold out much longer. Going back into the room, with its white walls and the stale air was torture. Somehow the thought of that made him laugh. Because he, of all people, knew torture. 

⁂

On the fourth of July Steve took him outside. Outside the tower, with only a team of security guards. 

“For my birthday,” Steve smiled as they reached the lobby, “I’m not actually a big fan of fireworks.”

“You used to be,” James remarked feeling himself slow down as they approached the front door. 

“Guess I’ve changed,” Steve stood with him, watching the slide doors open and close as people walked in and out in an endless stream. 

It was already astonishingly warm for early July.

James had gotten a light linen shirt and trousers with a pair of simple cotton sneakers. A camera around his neck. It was certainly a big change from the same tunic he had worn for months now. But it didn’t help much against the heat rolling in through the entrance. His hand shook, wet with sweat. 

“Are you ready?” Steve held up his hand, moved it around and placed it on his shoulder. 

Steve was wearing a sleeveless workout tank top with a pair of shorts that had a lot of pockets and slippers. Tied around his waist was a flannel long sleeved shirt. James didn’t know what for, even during the night time it was already sweltering hot.

James couldn’t help the shiver, “Yes.”

“Come on,” Steve’s hand pushed him gently forward onto the street. 

People swirled around them and the highrises around him made his head spin, losing his balance. He hadn’t thought it would be difficult to stand on the ground and look up and around. The garden had been overwhelming, but in a romantic and sentimental sort of way. This was pure chaos. 

Men, women, children and cars all swarmed passed and he couldn’t not see every single one of them as a threat. Steve led him to the side of the building, somewhere where the sun wasn’t blasting down on him. 

“I brought some water,” he held up a bottle. 

James couldn’t get a single word over his tongue and just gulped down half of it. For another ten minutes they stood watching the people go by and nothing noteworthy happened. He jumped when cars honked, but so did Steve. Sometimes they got jostled by a large group of tourists, which agitated him, but so was Steve. 

He had been in cities, been in crowded situations, focused and on a mission. The people just a mass of obstacles, the sounds just background noise. He needed to use aspects from all factions within himself. Soldier, ghost, spy and also Bucky. To be able to smile at Steve and mean it. To hold that hand on his shoulder. 

“So where are we going?” he asked, digging his fingers to hold on Steve’s shirt. 

“You feel up for some celebratory ice cream?” Steve squeezed his shoulder affectionately, “After I can show you around the neighborhood or we can go to the park.”

“It’s going to be just as busy there, isn’t it?” James grimaced. 

“On the fourth of July?” Steve laughed, his eyes crinkling, “Even more so. People love to pick out a good seat for the fireworks in the park.”

“No park then,” the narrow streets might be easier to get lost in than the open spaces of Central Park. 

They walked together to a nearby Ben & Jerry’s and made their way through the stream of tourists to Times Square. James made a picture of Steve with his mountain of ice cream. Nearly all different flavours mashed together in a large pot. Complimentary pink sunglasses. The photo came out blurry, but Steve smiled.

“Did I tell you I ran straight into this mess when I just woke up from the ice?” Steve pointed to the billboards flashing around them. 

They had been here before, when James was the spy, but it certainly didn’t have much of an impact as it did now. 

“You didn’t.”

“They had me in this room, pretending it was 1941 or something, which was as fake as the USO tours I did, so I bust out, run into the street headfirst into this,” Steve sucked on the little ice cream spoon, “Fury came up to me then, explaining what happened. It sounded just as preposterous as that little room they built for me.”

“What did you do after?” James watched clumps of tourists break up and reform, taking pictures of the whole spectacle.

He took a few pictures too.

Mostly he was on the lookout for the guards that had tagged along, the group dressed in combat gear and the ones civilian clothing. Since they left the tower he identified at least fifteen surrounding them. He wouldn’t be surprised if there were more. He made sure to make the photos of them as inconspicuous as possible. 

“Spent some time at the Retreat, some cabin in the woods Bruce made, then moved back to New York, then the alien invasion happened,” Steve said somberly. 

They moved away from Times Square and strolled towards the Radio City Music Hall and Rockefeller Center. 

Steve nodded to the building, “They still have a giant Christmas tree during the holiday period. It looks a lot more sparkly than what I was used to.”

“I was in New York once,” James mentioned, not sure if he should, “In the seventies.”

Steve watched the building for a moment, “You were on a mission then?”

James shrugged, snapping pictures of the giant structure against the vibrant blue sky, “Yeah, until I wasn’t. I think something must’ve not gone quite right with the procedure.”

He waved his hand in front of his face. 

“Do you still think you need the chair?” Steve asked as he wiped the sweat from his brow from under his baseball cap. 

James did. He did feel like it would make everything easier. Hill would get what she wanted, the perfect soldier. There was no way she would be able to convince him otherwise. It would be easier for Steve too, not to have to deal with the mess of him. The shakes, the nausea, the headaches. 

It was unclear what would happen with James. If he would still like books and photography. If he would still like things at all. Steve might lose his Bucky all over again. 

“No,” James said, staring at the previous screen on his camera, “Let’s get moving.”

They reached the Cathedral of St. Patrick. The last time they were here it was still covered in scaffolding. Now it’s windows and stiff peaks stood free. It was exceptionally busy here. James had trouble seeing some of the guards, which meant they had trouble seeing him too. 

“Do you want to go have a look inside?” Steve squinted as he gazed up, “It’s certainly a bit more imposing now that the restoration is done.”

James glanced around, trying to keep his face in the general direction of the church. He wanted to skip it, getting anxious with all the people around, “Not sure I feel comfortable there anymore.”

“Let’s go visit the gift shop at least,” Steve nodded at the side entrance. 

They squeezed through the racks, browsing through cards, books, candles, crucifixes and posters. Steve picked one out with an Irish blessing on it. 

“That looks familiar,” James pointed out, reading the saying.

“Indeed,” was all Steve said and walked with it to the register. They nearly bumped into five agents on their way out. Outside, James took another deep breath, hoping to get some air but the heat was still stifling. 

“I read they had a demonstration here in 1989. 4500 people, campaigning for AIDS awareness,” Steve bumped against his shoulder moving them away from the church front. 

“Sounds like something a certain young Steve Rogers would be into.”

“And drag a certain Bucky Barnes to come along with a little sign,” Steve chuckled, “Shouting phrases we had conjured up the night before.”

James tried to pick up the pace a bit as they walked along Madison avenue. The tourist confusion helped around the attractions, but these streets had more cars than people. This all changed when they reached Grand Central Terminal. The ceiling still held the constellations, still glittering. Bucky had told a young Steve some of them were actually not all that correct. ‘Artistic licence’ Steve had rebuked as they stood gaping at the ceiling. 

They moved to the center of the crowd, the train times clicking on the announcement boards, people shouting, hugging, bumping into them with suitcases and sharp elbows. James stared at the train times, at the clock, towards the stairs leading down to the tracks. Steve didn’t look at the ceiling this time. He looked sad, the line between his brows a deep crevice. 

“Let’s make a picture,” James said, his hand shaking. 

He gave Steve the camera to make the selfie and smiled his best smile at the camera. For Steve. They bowed over the picture together, seeing their smiling faces, the pain in their eyes. 

“Can I convince you to stay?” Steve nearly whispered, something catching in his voice.

Somehow James hadn’t seen it coming. He was the spy, a mastermind in deception, an expert in reading microexpressions, a professional when it came to finding motives and abusing them for his own agenda. Then there was Steve, who had purposely led them through the busiest area of New York to get him to a train station. Just to watch him leave.

James opened his mouth to tell Steve yes. He would come with him to the farmhouse, get some pet chickens and eat omelets every morning. Swim in the lake on these hot summer days and eat marshmallows around a campfire. Point out real constellations in the sky. Hold hands. 

James wiped his sweaty hand and took hold of Steve’s, “I need to leave.”

Steve pressed his lips together tight and nodded, “I know.”

“You’re my family,” James said and squeezed, “I’ll come back.”

“Okay. Thank you,” Steve nodded again, his eyes watering, “You’re my family too James, just as much as Bucky was.”

They held on for a moment, the world swirling around them. Voices combining into white noise. Movement blending to a soft blur. Steve sniffed hard, once and then let go. 

He quickly rolled up the poster and shoved it into one of the arms of the flannel shirt. 

“They’ll be looking out for an one-armed man,” he quickly pushed it over James’s shoulders and shoving the water bottle in one of the pockets, “Bunch up your hair.”

They hid most of up underneath Steve’s cap and together with the sunglasses the disguise was as good as it was going to get. Steve smiled still, now proud, cocking his eyebrows, telling him to go. 

“Anything for a fan of Captain America,” Steve suddenly announced with his most authoritative voice, puffing out his chest, putting on a professional expression. 

People swarmed him instantly, pushing in as James pushed out. The commotion behind him growing by the second, people with pens, phones and cameras all wanting a piece of Captain America. Just a glimpse or a touch. Flocking to him like he was the sun. James slinking away in the shadows. 


	18. Chapter 18

Maria scolded and then benched him for half a year. But two weeks after that she planned him in for a mission because they desperately needed him. So he went, kicked some Hydra ass and came back home. They had pizza parties and movie nights. They went to galas and visited the children's hospital. Life continued, just like it had before. Except now James was out there, somewhere, alive. 

The summer had come and gone. The fall’s first rain was tickling against the windows of the tower. Steve watched it slide down across his drawing table. He had a pencil in his hand and tapped it absentmindedly against the white paper. Drawing still didn’t come easy, there were days where he wanted to rip up whatever he made or swipe everything off the table again. He couldn’t do that, at least. His stack of sketchbooks was now topped by a framed picture of him and James staring teary eyed up at the camera. 

His heart still ached whenever he looked at it. So he did it as much as possible. 

“Are you moping again,” Natasha materialized behind him. 

He groaned, hands in his hair, “Please knock Natasha, I beg of you.”

“Nope,” she picked up the frame just like she always did since he got it, “I told you, it’s your punishment.”

“The coming in unannounced or the bothering me just out of spite?” Steve pushed his pencil away and walked to the kitchen. 

“Both, obviously,” she set the frame back down and followed along. 

He started making coffee while she hopped on the counter, ankles crossed and swinging. 

“There are cookies,” Steve opened the cabinet and found everything but cookies, “Somewhere at least.”

“Let’s make some,” Natasha offered, taking the pack of flour from his hands. 

“Alright,” he pulled out the sugar too, “Didn’t know you baked.”

“I’d like to think there’s a lot about me you don’t know, Steve,” she pushed herself further up the kitchen island, crossing her legs beneath her, “But I don’t bake, really. It’s just something fun to do, like your drawing.”

“I think it’s debatable how fun that is,” Steve scoffed but knew he shouldn’t have said that. 

Tearing himself down was not going to help anyone. His therapist was delighted when he got started again, up until the point he started explaining why it was breaking him up so much. It used to be his job and now all he was good for was punching people in the face. Instead of following that line down the rabbit hole he took a deep breath in and grabbed some butter from the fridge. 

“Do we need milk too?” 

“I don’t know,” Natasha had her phone lying face down next to her, “Jarvis put on one of those cozy cooking shows with cookies.” 

The tv ingrained in one of the walls popped on and showed an excited lady laying out several ingredients.

“No milk, yes to eggs,” Steve pulled out the entire carton, just in case Natasha wanted to double up on the cookies. 

As Natasha mixed the dry ingredients together, Steve beat the butter fluffy with some sugar and egg. They added a large amount of chocolate chips. To taste, the woman on the television recommended. 

“Can I tell you a secret?” Natasha asked as she licked one of the mixer sticks. 

“Please do,” Steve glanced up at her and noticed she wouldn’t meet his gaze. 

He focused on spooning the batter on a cookie sheet. Failing to make even heaps with the spatula he was using. These cookies were going to become monsters. 

“Remember I told you that I was envious of James,” Natasha dropped the beater back in the bowl, “While that was true, I was also jealous of him.”

“As well?” Steve plopped more batter on the tray, patting it down, “What’s the difference?”

Natasha hummed, “I felt like James was taking away what I used to have.”

“Okay,” Steve frowned now, “What does that mean?”

“Like he was stealing you away from me,” she wiped her lips with a napkin and folded it neatly in half, “You’re my best friend, Steve.”

“And here came this ghost from the past pretending to be my best friend,” Steve leaned back against the counter. 

Natasha hummed again, watching the woman on the television. She had already moved on to some fancy strawberry tarts, cutting strawberries and piping little puffs of whipped cream on perfectly baked golden brown cakes. 

“And even afterwards,” she didn’t fiddle with her napkin, or twirl her hair between her fingers, “When he became James, you two drifted to each other like magnets. Stuck in each other's orbit.”

She held out two fingers and brought them together. 

“I knew he was family,” Natasha linked her two fingers together like hooks, “But I never had much of a family. I’m only recently starting to learn that. What that means.”

“He’s not a threat,” Steve told her and grabbed her hands, small in his large ones, “I can promise you that and I’m very lucky to be able to have you next to me, whether rain or shine.”

“I think you spilled the sugar, Steve,” Natasha grinned, gripping back just as hard, “I don’t think your metabolism is even resistant to this amount of saccharinity.”

“Let’s bake these cookies first,” Steve opened the warm oven and slid in the tray, “How long do they need to go in?”

“I don’t know, I wasn’t paying attention to the recipe,” Natasha shrugged and hopped off the counter, “Shall I make some more coffee? This is cold.”

“You’re a little shit sometimes, did you know that?” Steve chuckled and tapped the tv to rewind. 

“It’s punishment, Steve,” Natasha said simply. 

⁂

It was Halloween and they still had to buy pumpkins from the store for the farmhouse. Steve had named the recovery house after his mother Sarah on all the official papers, but the facade of the old farm still stood, giving the outside a homely and rustic appearance. 

Not all rooms were filled. There was a lot of bureaucracy to wade through according to the pair of lawyers Pepper had hired. But there were a few ex-Hydra prisoners that hung around the kitchen when Steve and Tony carried the pumpkins inside. Some of them scattered, still weary of them or of strangers in general. 

Some of these people they fought, some of them they ripped from their nightmares into a completely different one. Steve had realized that his idea was not as simple. Some people still felt the need to be punished, or were violent to the point that they needed to be restrained. Some just couldn’t stay here. Yet. Steve remained optimistic, slowly but surely they were making a change. 

“Ready for carving,” Tony set the two large gourds on the floor, “I designed a special pumpkin laser printer in my teenage years. would carve as deep or as delicate as you needed, any design you liked. Mine usually had some pretty men and women.”

“Not just plain wieners and breasts?” Steve set down his own pumpkins, nodding promptly to the orderly who was already calling a few of the residents to help them out. 

“Do you hear yourself,” Tony groaned, “Do you actively hear what comes out of your mouth sometimes? How long have you lived in the twenty-first century, Steve, tell me because it sounds like it’s been six days, not six years. Haven’t we shown you enough contemporary sitcoms and pulp movies? What does it take? Do you need speech therapy too?”

“Tony please,” Steve held the kitchen door for the people rushing to get more pumpkins out of the pick-up truck, “I can say cock and tits, but I like to see you squirm, you know that.”

“Why do I hang out with you again,” Tony pondered, “On that note, you’ll be spending Thanksgiving with Wilson, is that right? Because I was thinking that, since nobody will be around, I can have a little private time with the missus, you know. Make it romantic, candles, roses, some sexy jazz.”

Steve rolled his eyes as they made their way through the dining room to the living room and out to the backyard, 

“Okay, I know what I said, but that doesn’t mean I want to know about your sex life.”

“Get your mind out of the gutter, Steven, I’m talking full on romance,” Tony waved his arms but didn’t seem to see the softening blue sky and the glowing setting sun drifting behind the trees, “Like the epitome of Valentines Day, but without all the kitch. Full on chocolates and strawberries but elegant. Titanic but without a ship sinking at the end.”

“Did you even see the Titanic?” Steve shook his head and took another deep breath of crisp autumn air. 

“Of course I did, what are you talking about?” Tony scoffed as they wandered down the path between the orchard trees, “Didn’t we see it together that time? Hey, no, wait a second, I remember now, you were crying your heart out at that movie! See, you can’t hide these things from me, Rogers, I remember things like that.”

He tapped his temple and then nearly slipped in some mud. Steve laughed as he caught him by the elbow, keeping him upright. 

“Yeah, yeah, very funny,” Tony wiped the mud from his shoe using a wooden fence pole, “Why are we out here even, we’re supposed to be inside drinking chai lattes and eating pumpkin pie. Those cooks at the tower put in a lot of effort.”

“I just thought it was romantic, you set such a mood,” Steve nodded to the open pasture before them. 

The idyllic little shed, with the hot red roof. Apple trees with the last few apples of the season still hanging on the branches. Someone made a scarecrow, a happy painted bucket on a pole with a sparkly rain jacket in the middle of a potato field. The sun just disappeared completely behind the trees, casting last rays of sunshine up and stretching the shadows long across their feet. 

“Oh, Steve,” a woman came walking up to him, still some plastic gardening tools in her hands. 

She wore a thick sweater, her curly hair and burn wounds hidden below the hood. Her long jeans hid her two mechanical legs, both Stark tech this time. She smiled though. 

“Will you be joining us for dinner?” she glanced at Tony a bit weary, “Mister Stark too?”

“We will,” Steve told her, “Tony brought an entire feast with him, but he’s only looking forward to the pumpkin pie.”

“Not only that. We brought pumpkins to carve as well, I made a laser pumpkin cutter in my teens, whatever design you wanted cutout to perfection within seconds. The most intricate designs, just hook it up to any computer.”

“Did you bring it?” the woman asked, a bit perplexed, “Some of us can’t use knives, so…”

“Well of course I didn’t bring it,” Tony huffed, “That thing was lost a million years ago during a lab explosion or maybe I just took it apart for parts.”

“Oh,” her face scrunched up, like she wanted to say something but didn’t, “We’ll see you at dinner then.”

“Looking forward to it,” Steve nodded as she waved and ran off. 

They watched her and others disappear into the house. 

“You did good here, Rogers,” Tony said. 

“Yeah,” Steve took another breath full of air, feeling the chill through his long sleeved shirt, “I wish it was better, but it’s good.”

“That’s all we can ever hope for, can’t we,” Tony dug his hands deep in the pockets of his blazer, “I’m going to ask her to marry me. Pepper. At Thanksgiving. I thought about doing it at Christmas but Thanksgiving sounds a bit nicer doesn’t it. To show her I’m thankful. Of her. Like in the ultimate way. Super romantic. That’s me.”

“It’s really romantic, Tony,” Steve smiled and clapped him on the shoulder, “She’s going to love it.”

“Good, good,” Tony looked around the farm, back to the building and at his shoes, “Will your boy come back? I still have that arm lying around somewhere in the lab, or shall I recycle it for parts too?"

Steve felt a shiver run down his spine, he tucked his hands underneath his arms. There wasn’t any kind of answer to it. James did tell him he would, but how long it was going to take to do whatever it was he needed to do on his own was the question that kept him up some nights. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe Hydra got hold of him. Maybe he found a new family and decided to stay with them instead. 

“I’m just waiting for him to be ready,” Steve forced the frown from his brow, “He’ll come back home.”

Tony nodded, stroking his beard, “Let’s go back inside and carve some pumpkins. You can show off those art skills I have been hearing about. You’ve been holding out on me. I want you to design the wedding invitations you know. Just so you’re aware.”

“Of course, Tony,” Steve snorted as they trailed back to the farmhouse.

⁂

“I’m thankful to have the whole family back together again,” Maddie said without a hint of sarcasm, though she gave Sam some side eye. 

“Momma,” Sam hissed, but got hushed by Aliyah’s daughter. 

“To have everyone safe and sound around my dining room table, stuffing them with the food we cooked, which they better like,” she gave some pointed looks around the table, “Because there’s enough for leftovers.”

“Do we all say thanks? The food will get cold,” a kid asked.

Steve knew him as the son of one of Sam’s cousins just by the fact that the child’s mother hushed it. Maddie had invited the extended family this year, saying Steve could handle the extra attention this time. There were some more excited exclamations at the door, but it didn’t last as long. They already had the Falcon of course. 

“He’s right,” Maddie waved her hand and grabbed one of the potato spoons, “Let’s eat.”

“How is Peggy doing, Steve,” Maddie asked him, touching his hand as she filled his plate with potatoes as well, “You visit her enough?” 

They were looking a bit too brown on top, but the garlic and cheese smelled amazing. 

“I do my best,” Steve helped himself to a generous portion of stewed meat and sausages, “She’s isn’t always feeling up to it these days. I send her flowers though, every chance I get.”

“Oh Steve,” Maddie looked heartbroken, “She is getting old isn’t she.”

“Yeah, I’m in touch with her family too, grandchildren and cousins,” he distracted himself by pouring too much sauce over absolutely everything, “It’s different though. Me and Pegs, we might’ve only seen each other a couple months at a time at most. So to them I’m just a side note in history rather than something relative. Familial speaking.”

“Captain America,” Sam scoffed, “Just a side note to Peggy Carter. Don’t sell yourself short, Steve, even if your time was short, it surely left a huge impact.”

Steve laughed, “I’m sure that he did,” he squashed his peas, “But in all seriousness, all I’m saying it’s a bit more work, to be part of their family. They like to keep it tight.”

He started shoveling in food just to stop talking about such a sad topic at a thanksgiving dinner table with Sam’s family. 

“And they’ll call, when she finally goes, I’ll be the first to know,” he smiled and shoveled more food in. 

“The waiting is hard,” Aliyah poured him some wine, “Jiwoo’s father has cancer. Doctors are telling him for months now he’s only got weeks to live. So every day we wake up, checking our phones for that final call and every day we go to sleep saying goodbye again. Waiting for the penny to drop.”

“That’s why Jiwoo isn’t here today?” Steve asked her, appreciating the gesture of the wine for what it was. 

Aliyah pressed her lips together and shrugged, “It’s all part of it. The end of days and then new life, new beginnings,” she motioned to the kids at the table, “Family will grow and shrink, but we’ll always have each other.”

“Have you been reading your teenage poetry again?” Sam poked her, grinning but laying a comforting hand on her back. 

“Oh shush you,” she accepted the comfort, “That’s the thing Steve, sometimes you get little shits like this dude and you just have to call it family because your momma will spank you if you don’t.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Aliyah, I never spanked you,” Maddie nearly flung some peas across the table as she waved her fork around, “You could’ve divorced your brother at any time. You just needed to wait until you were eighteen, only rule I ever made.”

“I would never divorce you,” the daughter suddenly said, putting her arms around her younger brother, “I love you.”

Everyone gushed at the scene. The little girl grinning wildly at the attention, the boy just hugged her back and continued eating. 

“Don’t worry, Aliyah, I love you too,” Sam harked another laugh and helped himself to more sausage, “I’ll be the bigger brother in this relationship.” 

“Like hell you are,” she smacked him playfully on the arm, “You’re two years younger than me.”

“They do say that the youngest are usually the most spoiled,” Steve interjected, pointing his fork at Sam. 

“See!” Aliyah whooped incredibly smug. 

They finished up dinner and sang carols and watched sentimental kids movies. Steve had fallen asleep on the couch at some point, only to be awakened by Sam who brought him a cup of coffee. 

“Most of them left,” he told him and sat down next to him, switching the television to mute, “Thought you might need this, not that it does anything, more of a psychological boost.”

“You mean you’re going to let me drive again?” Steve rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and wrapped his hands around the mug. 

“No, absolutely not,” Sam leaned his arm over the back of the couch, “You wouldn’t want to disappoint momma by killing her only son in a devastating car crash.”

“Like you haven’t survived car crashes before,” Steve rolled his eyes, “Not caused by me, might I add.”

“Yeah, so like statistically speaking I’m just taunting fate,” Sam rubbed his head. 

They listened to Aliyah and Maddie talking softly in the kitchen. The kids must’ve moved upstairs, either playing or sleeping. Steve had no perception of time, just the sensation of being surrounded by love and life and family. It hung heavy in the room, even after all the people had left. A thick blanket of safety and satisfaction. 

“This has been wonderful, Sam,” Steve sighed, setting his cup down on a stack of empty dessert plates. 

“Oh yeah, my cousins’ singing especially, am I right,” Sam snickered. 

“No, I mean it,” Steve turned to him, “I understand why you want to quit. What you have here is so special, it feels like it should be present in every home. It’s what I want for all those people at the farmhouse and Natasha and for Tony and Pepper. Did you know he’s going to propose tonight?”

Sam did a double take, “What, really? On Thanksgiving.”

“He thought it romantic.”

“Wow, okay, yeah I guess it is,” Sam hummed, glancing at the kitchen, “You can quit too you know. This is not some unreachable dream. Even for Captain America.”

“I know,” Steve’s heart ached just a little bit, thinking of Peggy and Bucky and James somehow all at the same time. 

He got up and collected all the empty plates and dishes to bring to the kitchen. Sam helped out, turning off the television and cleaning up the board game the kids had been playing. They joined Maddie and Aliyah who were staring at their own empty cups with whimsical smiles. 

“Just in time,” Aliyah perked up, “Time to do the dishes, gents.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Steve said at the same time as Sam scoffed, “No way, we’re guests here.”

“Sam, hasn’t anyone taught you, when the hosts cook the guests help clean up?” Aliyah placed her own coffee mug near the sink, the basin already filled with soaking pots and pans. 

“We already filled the dishwasher,” Maddie giggled, “Get to it boys, some simple labor won’t hurt you once in a while, with you living in that high tech tower.”

They moved to the living room, while Steve rolled up the sleeves and turned on the tap. 

“See, domestic life isn’t all what it’s cut out to be,” Sam sighed and picked up the tea towel. 

“I have to admit that I highly enjoy every technical advancement the future has to offer,” Steve chuckled rinsing all the dishes and then filling the basin with suds, “To think we spent so much time wasting on all these basic tasks just to stay alive that we could’ve spent with family. My mom was either working in the hospital, working at home or working to take care of me when I fell sick again.”

“Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean she didn’t do it with love, Steve,” Sam whacked him with the towel, “Look at your farmhouse. Heck, look at James, your support did that too, and I have it on good authority that you really liked to visit him and make him fool around with the camera.”

Steve blushed, keeping his eyes fixed on the cooked potato stuck to the bottom of a pan, “Yeah, maybe.”

“I mean, I know what you’re thinking,” Sam wiped the suds off a pan lid and placed it on the table behind him, “My momma and Aliyah struggled with my dad during his last few months. And sometimes they had to take care of themselves first. Situations like these are complicated, there can be a lot of complicated feelings and it’s important to acknowledge all of these.”

“Yeah, I know,” Steve rinsed the pot again and placed it on the drying rack, “Natasha told me that, actually. I’ve always been very sure of my direction in life, I suppose, to now get into situations where things are so muddled calls for a bit of an adjustment period.”

“Kinda like stepping away from all this fighting too,” Sam said and shrugged, “More steps I take to move away from it, the more I think I should keep doing it. I’m not gonna, right now I’m going to follow the plans and step back, but that doesn’t mean I can’t change my mind after, you know.”

“That’s true,” Steve laughed, feeling a little bit lighter, “Sometimes we get so hung up on the decisions we’ve made we forget that we can change our minds.”

“There you go,” Sam slapped him on the shoulder.

“I don’t think I can stop fighting though,” Steve pushed a baking tray under water, “But I know that’s not all who I have to be or do. I can have this,” he nodded back to the house, to Sam’s family, to Thanksgiving dinners, “And other things without having to give something up.”

“Like your art,” Sam interjected. 

“That too,” he swallowed any deprecating comments, “I wanted to do a mural at the farmhouse actually, have everyone who wants to add a piece.”

“Sounds like a good idea, bud,” Sam bumped shoulders with him, “I look forward to it.”

⁂

The winter holidays rolled around. The residents of the farmhouse had set up a Christmas tree and a Hanukkah menorah in the living room. Tony had delivered all kinds of presents, wrapped and ready under the tree. They were set on having another dinner on the weekend, but besides that it was work as usual. 

Some people were helping out in the kitchen, while others lounged in their rooms or the living room. Steve knew that some had physical therapy or actual group therapy appointments, but he didn’t have access to that part of the building. Though he liked to show his face, the resident therapist had made it clear that not everyone felt comfortable with the Avengers’ walking around at what was supposed to be a secure space for the victims. 

It was a bit difficult at the start, Steve wanted to be involved and gained his own sense of fulfillment and satisfaction of directly supporting and helping the residents. But he made sure to listen to the experts and talked about his feelings regarding it with his own therapist. Next to that he made sure inspections were taking place to catch any malpractice, they couldn’t let Hydra infiltrate this or any other organisation again.

On top of that, to soothe his own soul, they had a little crafts hour once a week. They would paint, outside if the weather allowed, or follow silly DIY videos and paste together all kinds of stuff. It usually was a lot of fun and really added a lot of color and character to the farmhouse. Today, they were cutting out paper snowflakes and folding origami animals. 

Steve held up his own crooked snowflake, decided it was good enough and wondered if he should glue some glitter on it. Initially he felt a bit silly, bringing some of these ideas to the table. Making adults do kids crafts wasn’t the most esteemed or mature thing to do, but people were open up for it and were welcome to skip any they didn’t feel like doing. No questions asked. Sam joined for the first couple of times. 

“Frogs this time?” he asked the girl beside him, young enough that he couldn’t yet call her a woman. 

She held parts of the paper with her elbow, sometimes struggling to make an intricate fold. Not everyone had wanted a Stark tech replacement limb. She also didn’t say much, Steve didn’t really know what to do with that so he just kept talking to her like anyone else. Before her sat a dozen paper frogs.

She nodded, pressing the butt of one of them and making it hop. 

“That’s cool,” he pressed the butt of another frog to make it jump and it went a bit sideways, “Guess that one had too much eggnog.”

At least she grinned at that.

A loud boom shook the table and rattled the windows. Steve jumped up even before the screaming started and the alarm bells blared. He wanted to reach for his shield but he left it somewhere in the hallway, next to his winter boots. Instead he ushered everyone up. 

“Alright, emergency procedure C, evacuate, come on, through the kitchen,” he made a quick head count of the people at the table. 

They were already shivering, close to tears. The girl with the frogs sat frozen stiff on her chair, hands on her lap, her hair dangling in front of her face. He reached out to touch her and didn’t. 

“It’s alright, you’re going to be fine,” he leaned down and pointed at the door to the kitchen, “Follow the rest, go outside. find an orderly. We’ll keep you safe.”

She didn’t look up or respond to him, besides the fact that she stood up, near mechanically and with large strides made her way to the door. Steve himself rushed to the hallway to get his shield, there were people pushing past him to get outside. Someone clung to him, crying hysterically, leaving him when another explosion went off in another part of the complex. 

He ran towards the explosion, not smelling the scent of ash and smoke or particular water that comes out of the sprinkler system. There was another scent in the air, something familiar, something not good. His pocket started vibrating, but he didn’t want to waste time to stop and pick up. He knew the call, Tony would be on his way with back up. Now he just needed to hold down the fort until they got here. 

The moment he sped round the corner he got jumped. The metal fingers did not scratch him, though not for a lack of trying. He rolled, spun them around and got jumped by another. It was like all the fights in Hydra hideouts and facilities. People driven to feral states, behaving like wild and cornered animals. Now he knew what the explosions were: the feral gas.

He saved them then and would save them now. First he knocked the woman on his back into the wall, making sure her ribs wouldn’t crack, but not stopping to make sure they hadn’t. The man already on the ground, clawing at his legs got shoved away. One at a time. 

In one smooth motion he pulled the woman’s shirt over her arms, tying them together and pushing her on the floor. It would have to be enough. It wouldn’t work with the man, his arms made of metal. Stark didn’t skimp in making them super powered on top of that. Steve did know that some of the grooves held ledges to open access to the inner workings, including a detachment. He rolled the man over his shoulder, pushing him down into the floor, pinning him with his knees. 

It took too long, the panels too fiddly to open, his fingers too big to fit inside the little hole. Then again with the other arm. People screaming further ahead in the corridor. Cries of pain and anguish, not just fear. 

He got up and moved on. But each resident he had to subdue or tie up slowed him down significantly. Therapists and orderlies were just as affected and they sometimes got into scraps with each other. Though everyone seemed to recognize Steve as the biggest threat. 

The door to the restricted area was wide open and Steve ran inside. The mood was a bit more sobering here, not just the distinct lack of decorations or color on the walls, he could hear fights going on behind every door. He couldn’t help everyone and had to find the source. It had to be Rumlow or some other Hydra wannabe, trying to strike Steve in the heart. 

He thought about it being James. Finding him back in that Winter Soldier combat gear. The mask covering his face, a gun in his hands, one flesh the other metal. His eyes cold, no recognition. Or worse, recognition and no acknowledgement, no emotion. Steve knew it couldn’t be true, but he’d be lying if he hadn’t woken up from that nightmare drenched in sweat on more occasions he’d like to recount. 

“My dear Captain,” it was Rumlow, “I wasn’t expecting you here so early. Have you been entertaining yourself eating glue and glitter with the other animals around here? Aren’t they lovely.”

He was surrounded by a small group of hostiles, driven by the gas. Steve recognized their faces. For some reason they followed Rumlow’s orders, some walking on all fours to surround him. Steve held up his shield, conflicted in spending more time disabling them or directly going for Rumlow. 

That was to say, if he could at all. The man had worn a mechanical suit in their previous encounters, but he certainly received an upgrade. Streamlined and matted black prosthetics, arms, legs and even his torso was covered with heavy plating. His arms for sure weaponized and Rumlow’s legs probably hid some surprises as well. 

“Oh? You like my little outfit?” Rumlow dusted off some non existing dust from his shoulder, “Our best work up to date. All based on Starks research, it seemed like our shared friend was good for something after all. You haven’t seen him around, have you? We’re very eager to reconnect.”

Steve didn’t even dignify that with a reaction, keeping his attention split between the brainwashed victims and any sudden movements from Rumlow himself. It was a dangerous combination. Rumlow could hurt the residents himself or forcing Steve’s hand, he clearly had the advantage here. 

“No?” Rumlow made a jerky movement that Steve realized must’ve been a shrug, “Loyal to the bone, aren’t you, Rogers? Even for a traitor twice over. Did he really fool you into letting him walk out of the tower? I used to have some respect for you, now I’d like to beat you to a pulp.”

The cue was obvious. Steve moved instantly, not towards Rumlow, but stepping sideways and slamming his shield into the fire alarm. The sprinklers sprung on nearly at the same time as Steve got swarmed. As gently as he could, he pushed them off, slamming people into the walls and ground. It wasn’t pretty. He could hear bones crack, people yelp, hitting their heads. 

But as soon as his jolly christmas sweater got soaked the attacking residents started to fumble. Some stared at him with wide eyes before letting go and running away. The water settled the gas, releasing people from it’s hold. 

Just in time Steve raised his shield to Rumlow. The hit reverberated in his arms, but he held. He did need to get the fight outside, before they tore the whole building apart and hurt more people. Steve slapped him with the rim of the shield, hearing the clang of metal upon metal. There should be a weak spot, even if the suit was designed by Tony. 

Rumlow didn’t give him the time to think about it, grabbing the shield by the rim and twirling him away like a ragdoll. Steve rolled with it, trying to get some distance, but Rumlow was fast and angry, kicking him further down the corridor. 

“Are you having fun yet, Rogers?” he barked, “How does it feel to take on someone your own size?”

In a split second, Steve saw him raise the arm, aim it and fire. He duck behind the shield, but the blast of the on contact grenade still pushed him further backwards, into a corner. He would’ve been glad the explosion was contained by the sprinklers and the reinforced walls, but he hardly could get a thought in before he got hammered down with another grenade. 

“I’ve got plenty more of these, Rogers!” Rumlow shouted, “And a lot more other surprises, it’s Christmas after all.”

Steve hoped that Tony was tangled up with them instead of taking his sweet time to arrive. This was getting a bit too much to handle. He took another hit behind the shield, feeling himself cracking the wall behind him and immediately flung the shield out. The vibranium impacted with another one of Rumlow’s shots, detonating the grenade right out of the barrel. 

Rumlow stumbled backwards with a curse, but recovered fast enough to catch Steve charging at him. They struggled, Steve trying to aim for his head, the most obvious soft spot on his body despite the helmet. He got several heavy hits in his ribs in return. 

Somehow Rumlow tossed him off, hurling him through the door of a side room. Steve crashed into some lounge chairs, jumped up and hurled the desk towards Rumlow. It did absolutely nothing to slow him down. Rumlow managed to grab him again and toss him against the window. Steve noticed a pair of residents huddled up in the corner of the room, hiding behind a couch. Immediately he smashed the window, feeling the glass cut up his arm. It would heal. 

Before he got the chance to climb out, Rumlow pulled him back, holding him up, aiming one of his robotic arms. Steve kicked out, feeling the burn of the grenade singe his hair as it exploded just beside him. He hooked his legs around Rumlow’s waist and twisted him down. 

“Get out! Get out, now!” he waved to the huddled pair, but couldn’t see if they got out as Rumlow knocked him off into another window. 

The shards sticking in his back didn’t matter, as long as he diverted attention long enough for the two residents to escape. That he was getting further and further away from his shield was an unfortunate side effect. Until one of the residents tossed something at Rumlows head. It was the same woman he saved from the fire, standing shivering in the cold. 

“You disgusting piece of shit,” she yelled out, tossing another gardening tool towards his head. 

Even if Rumlow tried to take aim at her, Steve used this distraction too to throw Rumlow back. He tested his grip on the mechanical arms, see how much it would bend. It didn’t. He needed to get his shield. Instead he punched Rumlow in the face, whose nose was still blood and bone. Whose teeth colored pink when he grinned. That’s when Steve felt the metal hand against his chest. A threat like a nozzle of a gun. 

“I’ve got a gun in there too,” Rumlow still felt the need to gloat his victory. 

A loud bang and the following burning pain of his insides being torn apart made him gasp. He clamped down his side, he’d survive it. He did it before. Rumlow shot again as Steve made a nose dive for the corridor. 

“Not so useful, am I right?” Rumlow said panting as he followed him, “All those messy fleshy parts. Makes you think about everything else we can improve about the human race.”

Steve fumbled with the shield, but managed to raise it. Just in time to hear someone call out Rumlow’s name followed by the pop of a gun before he sank to the ground like a ton of bricks. 

Heaving, Steve stayed behind his shield, pulling himself up by the wall, trying to push more wool against the wound in his side to stop the bleeding. The sprinklers were really flooding the place and Rumlow laid face first in a pool of water. Steve hobbled over and knelt down. He was unconscious, a tranquilizer dart right between his eyes. He laid him on his side. From the corner of his eye he could see someone approach: the shooter. A gait he would recognize anywhere. 

“James,” he breathed, wincing through the pain in his ribs and side. 

“Where’s your team?” James demanded, stoic, checking the corridor and the surrounding rooms. 

“I don’t know, they were en route,” Steve became a bit dizzy from James running around him, securing the area. 

He stopped him when he passed, reaching out with his bloodied hand, not quite close enough to touch him. But James slowed either way, now showing the concern on his face. 

“James, fucking hell,” Steve wanted to touch that face, wanted to hold him and feel that he was actually real, “What are you doing here?”

“Neutralizing Rumlow,” he pointed to the ground, where Rumlow lay, “The security didn’t pick up on him due to the modifications. And saving you. Steve, you cannot be taking bullets all the time just because you did it before.”

James holstered his gun, pulling the ruined sweater away to look at the wound before putting pressure. 

“James,” Steve let go of the breath he was holding. 

He dropped his hands on James’s shoulders, feeling the responding flinch and the following ease in tension. He pulled James close, holding him tight, smelling the water in his hair. 

“You’re okay,” he mumbled into James’s neck. 

“Yeah,” James said softly letting him hold on for just a moment. 

Then he put more pressure on the wound and Steve was forced to let go, “And you aren’t. Let’s go.”

Together they made their way outside. There were still people lying unconscious in the hallway or some were still huddled and hiding in the corner, but most of the residents and orderlies had made their way outside, forming groups and supplying help services on the scene with information. There was an ambulance at the scene and a busload of Shield safekeepers. 

Steve wanted to contact Maria, check on what was keeping Tony, but James brought him to the ambulance where he got cut off from all activity by the first responders. He noticed too late that James stole his mobile phone. 

The ambulance personnel stuffed him in the back of their truck and performed some rudimentary first aid, leaving Steve blind and deaf for the aftermath. He wanted to help out, but they wouldn’t let him. 

Eventually Maria opened the back of the truck. 

“You alright?” she asked, still with a phone held up, as if she wasn’t even talking to him, “We’ve taken control of the situation, we arranged some alternative housing for the farmhouse people. They are shaken, but they’ll be fine.”

“What kept you? Where’s Tony?” Steve wanted to know where James was. 

The moment he stepped outside of the ambulance most of the people were herded into busses or separate private cars. None looked too happy about any of it. But none of them were James. 

“Well we took about half an hour to get here, as it does, even in a quinjet,” Maria offered him an orange trauma blanket, “Tony is on one of his charity events in Europe. Natasha and Clint came with us, they are with your friend at the moment.” 

He heard the loaded tone she used. Omitting his name, just out spite of it. 

“Maria, he literally saved my life,” Steve pointed out, he wouldn’t be below begging if it came down to it, “He didn’t even kill Rumlow, what more do you want?”

“I want him to come in for assessment,” Maria shook her head and sighed, “I know, Steve, I know. But I’ve had to grovel through the dust for a lot of people after you walked him out the door. This isn’t just about me or you.”

“No, it’s about him,” Steve pointed to the house for emphasis but hurriedly placed it back on his wound for support, “It’s about them.”

“Yes, I know,” she crossed her arms, “Hence, just a voluntary assessment. I’m sure if he wasn’t up to show his face, he’d be long gone by now. I assume he made a calculated risk just to be with you.”

Steve let out a harried breath. The busses drove off, hopefully they won’t be gone long. They had a dinner planned and everything. He looked back at the farmhouse, it felt tainted somehow, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be a safe haven once again. By putting in the work. 

“Where are they?” he asked quietly, soft enough that Maria might not have heard him over her own phone conversation. 

She nodded towards the vegetable garden. 

He hobbled over, keeping his breath in to stop the hurt in his ribs and side. They were huddled around the shed, he could see Natasha’s flaming red hair stark against the blue sky. Clint, besides her, laughed at something, dropping his cup of coffee on the ground. 

James stood confidently with them. His hair still long, but tied up in a messy tail. He wore all black, the sleeve of the winter coat pinned up at the shoulder. Suddenly he turned, looking straight at Steve. For a split second Steve was scared he would run off, that he disappeared before his eyes and all of it turned out to be just a dream. The smile that spread on James’s lips didn’t help. 

He reached them, feeling the warmth of their little huddle and he wished that his blanket was big enough to engulf all four of them. It wasn’t, so he pulled it tight. 

“They got you again, Steve?” Clint asked, bumping him on the shoulder, “You’re starting to look suspiciously like me, dude.” 

“Except I won’t be housebound for the next two months, Clint,” Steve grinned, “That’s where we differ.”

“Hm, I don’t see the difference,” Natasha tapped a finger to her lips, “Because neither would Clint, he’d go running around with a broken arm and getting into trouble. I think you guys have a lot more in common than you’d like to admit.”

“I’d like to confirm this,” James stated, cocking an eyebrow, “I have extensive background information. You both run headlong into trouble.”

They laughed and Steve didn’t mind the hurt in his ribs. He didn’t mind much of anything except to see James’s glorious smile. 

⁂

Maria got her lowkey interrogation. Steve wasn’t allowed to attend, but read the report. He read everything that James had been up to. Laying low in small towns across America and coming back to New York to live right under their noses. He worked as a photographer in a tiny family owned boutique, went home to a rundown shared apartment somewhere in Queens and tried to work out his troubles with visits to the VA and other cheap therapy alternatives. 

He admitted to digging up some intel on Hydra and Rumlow by himself and tracked him to the farmhouse. The stun gun was purposeful, it wasn’t about killing, but recognizing that Rumlow might have valuable information. He was working on it, just like he was working on being a person. 

Steve skimmed over all the details they combined regarding Hydra, they had more than enough now to break up the whole operation. Rumlow’s act was one of desperation. there was no follow up possible.

While Maria and her team compiled a strategic plan to crush Hydra once and for all, Steve welcomed James back into his apartment at the Tower after the interview.

“I have food,” Steve led him to the kitchen, “It’s this recipe that Sam taught me once, not sure if I did it justice.”

He hovered at the stove, turning it on to reheat the pan of pasta, stirring it needlessly. Somewhere behind him James moved around, from the kitchen to the windows, to his drawing table. Steve remembered their picture there, framed on top of a stack of sketchbooks that all held James’s likeness somewhere. 

“The room you used, you know, before,” Steve kept stirring the pot, “Is available too, if you like to get some rest or something.”

“How’s that wound?” James asked instead, holding on to the picture. 

“It’s fine,” Steve pulled out plates and they clattered as he put them on the kitchen island, “Bit tender, but it’ll be gone in the morning.” 

He was at a loss for words while he scooped up the pasta. They had a short talk after the whole incident, but James left after. He had said he’d come back and Steve trusted that, because he had to. But that didn’t mean he was there first thing to see James walk through the large glass doors of the Tower. 

“How’s- You had- I’ve read-,” Steve swallowed everything, “How have you been?”

James set the photo back down and walked back to the table, “I still don’t know how to answer that, most of the time.”

“I guess no one does,” Steve grabbed some cutlery and napkins, “It’s mostly just pleasantries, but I- I missed you. I’m genuinely interested in how you’re doing, what you’re doing.”

“You’ve read the report, from Agent Hill,” James pierced some pasta shapes on his fork. 

“Yeah, I have,” Steve felt the embarrassment creeping up on him, “It’s a bit generic.”

“How about you tell me first, how you’ve been,” James grinned, sucking on his fork. 

“Yeah, of course,” Steve set the fork down, “Well, you’ve seen the farmhouse. We got that off the ground somewhat, it’s been great to help these people, for what we can. I don’t meddle too much, it’s mostly just the money I supply, but we have a monthly crafts hour I lead, it’s great fun.”

“Like drawing?” James asked, looking back at the drawing table.

“Not just drawing, that’s mostly just for me,” Steve felt the uneasiness rise in his chest, “It’s been difficult, to draw, but I try to remember what you said once. Repetition is necessary before you get good at something, so each day I try and sit there with the intention to draw.”

“‘Repetition is required to reach the desired effect,’ I believe I said.”

“That was way too grim, I couldn’t in my right mind use that as an inspirational quote!” Steve laughed and then shoveled more food in before his cheeks would burst into flames. 

“I’ve been making pictures too,” James said, finishing up his plate, “Not just for work. I find high vantage points and make aerial shots. A bit grimm too, I suppose, but it’s a great way to deal. With all the things still stuck in my head.”

Steve pushed his plate aside, leaning heavily forward, “We all deal with trauma in different ways.” 

James laid out his hand on the counter, “I missed taking pictures of you though,” he said, like it was simple, “I missed holding your hand too.”

Immediately Steve laid his own hand in his. He blushed and squeezed and couldn’t stop grinning. They were only holding hands, intertwining fingers, James’s thumb stroking the side. 

“I can do hugs too,” James explained, tilting both their hands sideways, “If you don’t squeeze quite so tight.”

“Yes of course!” Steve stood up, knocking the barstool on the floor. 

He didn’t care. He rushed to get to the other side of the kitchen island and slowed when he reached James. Slowly he held out his hands as an invitation, but James cocked his head with a cheeky smirk and his eyes fierce. 

Carefully and much slower than he did at the farmhouse he placed his hands on James’s sides, pressed in close and put his chin on his shoulder. He felt James’s hand grabbing hold of his shirt, his breath in his neck, his heart beating against his own. 

“I missed you so much,” Steve mumbled, smiling or crying or something. 

He did want to squeeze. He wanted to hold on tight and never let go. But more than that he wanted James to feel safe and valuable and loved. 

“Steve,” James moved away just enough to look him in the eye, “Can I kiss you now too?”

Steve drew a soft breath in. Staring at James. There was no hesitation or doubt. For him this was a simple question and no reason for embarrassment. Steve flushed even more, his heart swelling with anticipation. He glanced down at James’s lips, back up at his bright blue eyes. He gripped the shirt tighter, let go and dragged his hands up to cup James’s face, fingers stroking over the scruff of his beard. 

“Yes,” he exhaled, “Anyway you want.”


	19. Chapter 19

James stepped out of the shower, reaching for a towel and dried himself off as quickly as possible. Patting between the plastic joints of his prosthesis, courtesy of Stark. The whole bathroom smelled like lavender and aloe vera. And so did his hair. He didn’t bother brushing out the tangles because he knew that Steve liked to. 

Without bothering to get dressed he walked back to the bedroom, flinging the wet towel in the direction of the laundry basket in the corner. Steve was still asleep, snoring softly in the bright sunlight of what promised to be a warm spring day. 

Steve bought a house in Brooklyn. ‘A fixer-upper’, he had called it, still aspiring to fix it without the knowhow. It didn’t matter to James. This was an upgrade to his apartment in Queens, or even the cell at the Tower or the Raft. He didn’t bother comparing it to anything Hydra supplied him with. This was his. And Steve’s. And no amount of clanging pipes, broken floorboards or moldy walls was going to prevent this from being the best place he had ever lived. 

He knelt down next to Steve in bed, watching the tousle of his hair, the curve of his nose and lips, the expanse of skin hidden underneath the sheets. 

Once upon a time he might have been patient. He could wait hours upon hours, days upon days for the right opportunity, for someone to give him a mission or just for something to happen. Maybe once upon a time he could’ve watched Steve, observed every tick and mannerism, catalogued everything away as important intel. Sometimes he still caught himself doing it. Through the lens of a camera.

But nowadays he prided himself in being impatient. Being excited to see Steve wake up or lock eyes with him. Acknowledging him. Being seen. Steve would drop his pencil or paintbrush. He’d get a twinkle in his eye and a soft smile on his lips. He’d grab him, hold him, kiss him, unable to help himself. 

Sometimes James couldn’t wait to be touched.

He reached out. Pushing Steve’s hair out of his face, dragging his fingers over the shell of his ear, down the neck, dipping into the hollow of the collar bone. Steve twitched, yawned, stretched and opened his eyes. 

“Did you shower without me?” Steve grinned, placed his hand on James’s neck and pulled him close for a kiss. 

“I’d never get it done otherwise,” James kissed him back. 

“Nonsense,” Steve mumbled against his lips, “Now come here, it’s way too early.”

“It’s not,” James pushed him away, shoving a phone in his face with a reminder blinking brightly, “We’re meeting Sam and Natasha, remember? Can’t be late this time.”

Steve groaned and snatched the phone, he held it out, arms outstretched, smiling up at the camera. James leaned in close, staring back at the both of them reflected on that small screen. His hair wet and tangled, Steve’s mushed flat. He still had sleep sand in his eyes. But his smile was like the dawn and so, James realized, was his own. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hi!  
> This is my very first attempt at fanfiction, written over two Nanowrimos.  
> Despite my anxiety wanting otherwise, the only heads-up I'm going to give is that English is not my first language.  
> I would love some comments, but please be gentle.


End file.
